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ewMMpshire 



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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



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i 



THE 



POETS 



NEW HAMPSHIRE, 



SPECIMEN POEMS OF THREE HUNDUED POETS OF THE 
GRANITE STATE, WITH BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 



COMWtED BY 



BELA CHAPII:^, 



:M0NT, N/B;;, 



UfQ-o'^ 



CLAREMONT, 
CHARLES H. ADAMS, PUBLISHER, 

1883. 



'■ "V\v 



Entereil according to act of Congress in the year 1882, })y 

CHARLES H. ADAMS, 

in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C 






\ 



-^J' 



PRINTED AND BOUND BY 
THE CLAREMONT MANUFACTURING CO. 



TO 

his excellency 

The Honorable Charles Henry Bell, 

governor of new hampshire, 

this volume is 

inscribed 
by the compiler. 



PEEFACE. 



A writer in the North American Review, some sixt^- 3-ears ago, 
marvelled that a State so ricli in beautiful and sublime scenerv 
as New Hampshire had given no considerable indication of po- 
etic talent. That the muses have dwelt among our mountains, 
lakes and rivers, and that our State literature is by no means 
meagre in poetrj-, a reference to the following pages Avill 
afford convincing proof. 

The task of collecting specimen poems and preparing bio- 
graphical notices of the New Hampshire poets was undertaken 
in the autumn of 1881, and the result is here laid before the 
public. The design was not altogether unprecedented, as vari- 
ous collections of poetry, the productions of poets of other States, 
liave already appeared. Such books have generally been com- 
piled w'ithout chronological order and also without biographical 
notes. 

This volume includes with native poets those who have made 
their permanent home in this State. There are, however, ex- 
ceptions to the rule in the case of two or three who have for 
quite a number of 3'ears during the summer and autumn seasons 
resided among our rock}- hills and quiet retreats, and who, while 
here, devoted much of their time to literary work. 

It has been no eas}' thing to determine who, upon the score of 
merit, were entitled to a representation. Their names are not 
a few- concerning which there could be no question. In making 
selections the object has been to present some of the best poems 
of each poet, although in many instances their poems mav be 
well known to the reader. The biographical notes arc necessa- 
rily brief and serve but to give statistics of the writers and to 
introduce them to the reader. It is believed that no poet has 



PEE FACE. 



been admitted to the pages of this volume who has not a good claim 
to be there. It is not pretended that all the verse is of the first 
order, but most of it is of real excellence and of general interest. 

While the names of many of the poets will be recognized by 
the reader as familiar acquaintances, there are others with whom 
tlie public has but a slight acquaintance ; and many of the poems 
here given have never before appeared in print, and several of 
meiut have been written expressl}' for this volume. 

To the poets who have so kindly furnished their elegant vol- 
umes, or have placed at his disposal their manuscripts and cop- 
ies of poems cut from magazines and newspapers, the compiler 
is under great obligations. May their favors be doubly repaid, 
and may they in return become more widely known and appre- 
ciated. 

To his many friends to whom the compiler is indebted for nec- 
essary information he desires to tender his sincere and grateful 
thanks. Especiallj' is he indebted to men who are or have been, 
most of them, connected with the newspaper press ; among 
whom may be mentioned, "William H. Hackett, Lewis W. 
BuEwsTER and Albert Laighton, Esqs., of Portsmouth ; the 
venerable C4eorge Wadleigh, Esq., of Dover ; Edward D. 
BoYLSTON, Esq. , of Amherst, who lent a helping hand in many 
wa^'s ; JosiAH M. Fletcher', Esq., of Nashua; Henry W. 
Herrick, Esq., of Manchester; Hon. Henry P. Rolfe, James 
O. Adams and John N. McClintock, Esqs., of Concord; H. 
L. Inman, Esq., of Keene ; Joseph W. Parmelee, Esq., of 
Newport; Benjamin P. Shillaber, Esq., of Chelsea, Mass., 
Rev. SiLVANus Hayward, of Globe Village, Mass., and Fred- 
eric A. Moore, Esq., of Washington, D. C. 

The work is now done, and, despite the labor and care it has 
caused the compiler, he leaves it with a sentiment of regret. It 
has been a labor of love and pleasantness throughout, and he 
leaves it like one who goes from the place where loved compan- 
ions surround the festive board, where cheering converse h^s 
long delighted and enlivened. Thus fondly lingering he bids 
adieu to The Poets of New Hampshire. 



CONTENTS. 



• SAMUEL HAVEN. 

Tlie Praise of Angels, 1 

On Resignation ami Hope in God un- 
der troubles 2 

- JEREMY BELKNAP. 

Prudence, 2 

Keanimation, 3 

(.'lirist's Commission to preach the 

Gospel 4 

The God of Nature, 4 

Obedience to God our Father 5 

Marriage, *> 

Lines, 6 

.JONATHAN MITCHEL SEWALL. 

The Seasons, 7 

Anniversary Song 8 

Paraphrase of the last Chapter of 

Ecclesiastes, 9 

THOMAS BALDWIN. 

The Union of the Saints, 10 

J ROBERT DINSMOOR. 

The Poet's Farewell to the Muses,.. 11 
SARAH PORTER. 

The Royal Infant 14 

DAVID EVERETT. 

AnOde, IC 

Extract from a Valedictory Poem, . . 16 

Lines 17 

^ THOMAS GREEN FESSENDEN. 

Flattery, IS 

The Course of Culture IS 

The Independent Fai-mer , 20 

The Farmer 20 

HOSEA BALLOU. 
Blessings of Christ's Universal 

Reign 21 

GodisLove 22 

' PHILIP CARRIGAN. 

Lafayette's Return, 22 

WILLIAM MERCHANT RICHARD- 
SON. 

The River Merrimack 24 

DANIEL WEBSTER. 

Lines to a Departed Son, 20 

From "Human Redcniplion," 27 

The Memory of the Heart 2S 

Winter 2S 

Lines written in an Album 778 



ANDREW WALLACE. 

A Prayer in Sickness 2!) 

Hymn of Thanksgiving for Recov- 
ery from Sickness, ;50 

NATHANIEL HAZELTINE CARTER. 

Hymn for Christmas, 31 

To my Native Stream :!2 

The Closing Scene— A Burial at Sea, 33 
^CHARLES BURROUGHS. 

Mount Washington, 34 

A Morning Prayer .'55 

WILLIAM PLUMER. 

The Ocean, 30 

The White Hills 37 

The Ancestral Seat 88 

Love, 39 

The Wedding 40 

Wedded Love, 40 

The Father 41 

Children, 42 

Flowers, 42 

Patriotism, 43 

SARAH WHITE LIVERMORE. 

The Burdock 43 

" JOHN FARMER. 

Lines 44 

Epitaph for a Friend, 4.") 

ELISHA SNELL FISH. 

Ambition, 45 

St.anzas suggested by the opening of 

China to Gospel Influences, 40 

Inferences and reflections, etc. 47 

NATHANIEL APPLETON HAVEN. 

Autumn 49 

Prayer 49 

Hymn for the Fourth of July, ]h13,. M 

AMOS ANDREW PARKER. 

The Parting Hour ."Jl 

Jilted, :>•! 

CARLOS WILCOX. 

Active Christian Benevolence, .53 

Live for Eternity, .t5 

Sunset in September 5f> 

Spring in New England .'57 

- SARAH JOSEPHA HA I.E. 
The Rose-Tree at the Birth-place of 

Washington, 00 

I Sing to him 61 

The Light of Home, 62 

The Silk-worm 03 



VIII 



CONTENTS. 



WILLIAM BINGHAM TAPPAN. 

The White Mountains •••■:" ^! 

There is an Hour of Peaceful Rest, 64 
The Olfl North Burial Ground in 

Portsmouth, ^o 

GEORGE KENT. 
Thoughts at the base of Niagara 

y^jlg bi 

"Hope 'on— Hope ever," 68 

A Modest Claim, ^° 

In Memory of President Garfield, ... 71 

ELIZA O. SHORES. 

On visiting the Scenes of early life, 72 

ELIZA B. THORNTON. 

The Sumac Tree ^'^ 

Bocbim, ^^ 

AJfflA MARIA WELLS. 

Ascutn ey '''^ 

DANIEL DANA TAPPAN. 

Hymn, 75 

Ilvmn to Jesus, '5 

Hymn to the Redeemer, '6 

Auld Lang Syne, 77 

Landing of the Pilgrims a 

EDNA HASTINGS SILVER. 

Christmas 7S 

On the Death of a Child 79 

Lines, 79 

Nature, 79 

Memory, 80 

The Midnight Knell 80 

SARAH SMITH. 

The White Clover 81 

THOMAS COGSWELL UPHAJtl. 

The Spiritual Temple 83 

Song of the Pilgrims, 82 

The Inward Christ, 83 

The Living Fountain, 83 

The Greatness of Love 84 

Silence under Trials, 84 

OLIVER WILLLYIM BOURNE PEA- 
BODY. 

Lines, 8.5 

Too Early Lost 8.5 

Stanzas 87 

WILLIAM BOURNE OLIVER PEA- 
BODY. 

The Autumn Evening 88 

The Rising Moon 89 

The Death of an Infant, 89 

Monadnock 90 

CALEB STARK. 

The Battle of Lundy's Lane, ffi 

i BEN.IAMIN BROWN FRENCH. 

The Maiden at Church, 93 

Thoughts on Visiting the Place of 

my Nativity 94 

Song for the Atlantic Cable Celebra- 
tion, 9,5 

Hymn composed at Gettysburg, 97 

The Last Words of John" Brown 98 

NATHANIEL GOOKIN UPHAM. 

Dedication Hymn, 99 



AMOS BLANCHARD. 

An Evening in a Grave-yard 100 

MARY CUTTS. 

Sea Shells, 101 

Song, 102 

The Fated 103 

■GEORGE WASHINGTON HAMINIOND. 

The Prospect, 103 

For a Friend's Album, 104 

Prudence 105 

^ CHARLES WARREN BREWSTER. 

History of News— Birth of the Press, 105 

J CYNTHIA L. GEROULD. 

Sunset, 107 

Hymn for the Season 108 

ASA DODGE SMITH. 

To Mount Ascutney, 109 

ROBERT BOODEY CAVERLY. 

The Old Garrison House 110 

Clara 113 

SUSAN REBECCA AYER BARNES. 

Our Mountain Homes, .' 113 

Farewell to New England 114 

MOODY CURRIER. 

All Things Change 115 

October, 116 

On recovering from sickness 116 

The Indians, 117 

EPHRAIM PEABODY. 
West's Picture of the Infant Samuel, 117 
The Skater's Song, 118 

- JAMES BREMAN. 
Stanzas 119 

THOMAS P. MOSES. 
To a Miniature of a departed Friend, 120 

- EUNICE laMBALL DANIELS. 

The First Flower 120 

HUGH MOORE. 

Spring is Coming, 121 

To-morrow, 122 

Midnight 123 

MARY WILKINGS SPAULDING. 
Why should we cling to earth, 124 

- EDMUND BURKE. 

In Imitation of Burns 124 

•STEPHEN GREENLEAF BULFINCH. 
Lines on visiting Tollulali Falls, 

Georgia, 125 

Hymn for Sabl)ath Jloruiug Worship, 126 
MILTON WARD. 

The Lyre, 126 

JOHN H. WARLAND. 

Summer, 128 

The Dumb Child, 130 

Lines on the Death of Charles J. Fox, 132 
^ LEWIS C. BRO^VNE. 

Briers and Berries 133 

A Song of Age 135 

Teachina: School and Bojirding 

Arounll 136 



CONTENTS. 



IX 



Threescore and Ten 137 

JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE. 

The Ship, 139 

Trif ormis Diana, 140 

The Poet 141 

CAROLINE ORXE. 

Sabbath Evening 142 

The Exile, 143 

The Heart's Guests, 144 

■ JOHN GREENLEAF ADAMS. 

God's Angels, 145 

Heaven Here, 145 

Strive to make the world better 146 

^ ESTHER WALDEN BARNES. 

For Memorial Day, 147 

Easter Carol 148 

LOriSA SBIES. 

From Youth to Manhood, 148 

To the Clouds 149 

HORACE GREELEY. 

The Faded Stars, 150 

Darkness over earth was sleeping,.. 151 

On the death of William Wirt 151 

Fantasies 152 

MARY STEARNS PATTERSON. 

The Autumn Rose, 153 

Lines for a Young Lady's Album, . . 154 

MARY RAITSIOND PRATT. 

"Do they love there still?" 154 

ELIAS NASON. 

A Morning Hymn, 155 

A Christmas Carol 156 

Jesus Oulv, 157 

The Poor "Man at the Gate of Para- 
dise 157 

The Lord's Prayer, Paraphrased,... 158 

The Smile of the King 158 

The Blue Gentian, 158 

• CHARLES JAMES FOX. 

The Christian Promise 160 

JOHN NELSON MOSES. 

Stanzas, 161 

GEORGE ]NL\.THER CHAMPNEY. 

Lines to Souhegan River 161 

• JAMES CHURCHILL BRYANT. 

Sabbath Morning 164 

In Sickness 163 

BENJAMIN PENHALLOW SIULLA- 
BER. 

A Country Summer Sunday, 166 

Piscataqua 168 

The Hidden Treasure 170 

WOODBURY MELCHER FERNALD. 

My Daughter's Home, 173 

A Vision of Eternal Glory 174 



WILLIAM B. JLVRSII. 

The Bright Spirit Land 175 

- EZRA EASTMAN ADAMS. 

Stepping with the Stars 176 

"I move'into the Light," 177 

Growing Old 178 

What may we carry to the Vast For- 
ever, 178 

, EDWARD D. BOYLSTON. 

Bridal of the Granite and Pine 179 

The Pemigewassett 180 

The "Great Light," 181 

"Nearer Thee," 182 

"Without God in the World," 182 

The Blessed Sabbath 1&3 

CHARLES W. UPHAM. 

Jacob's Funeral, 183 

MATTHEW HARVEY. 

The Old Hearth-stone, 184 

A Pathetic Ballad, 185 

Stanzas 187 

AUGUSTA HARVEY WORTHEN. 

The Lily's Story, 188 

Kearsarge Mountain to its Name- 
sake, 191 

MARY WHITCHER. 
The Snowstorm 192 

JAMES KENNARD. 

Fourth of July 193 

What shall I ask in prayer? 194 

WILLIAjSI WENTWORTH BECK. 

The World as it is 196 

The Soul, 197 

LEANDER CLARK. 

Song 198 

A Dirge 198 

Lines 199 

Faith and Hope 199 

Sonnet 200 

Sonnet, 200 

Hester Moreland 200 

Intramuros 202 

MARY B. HOSMER. 

The Beggar's Christmas Eve 203 

After .Seventeen Yeai's, 204 

Twilight Musings, 203 

Our Soldiers' Graves 206 

' HARRIET N. DOKELERY. 

Sunset, 207 

Orllla 208 

Sons of New Hampshire 209 

SARAH SHEDD. 

An Indian's Lament on the banks of 

the Saco, 210 

Old Draper Hill 211 

LUELLA J. B. CASE. 

The Doomed Race 212 

ADeath Scene, «13 



CONTENTS. 



' HARRY HIBBARD. 

Franconia Mountain Notch, 214 

THOMAS RUSSELL CROSBY. 

To Merrimack River, 218 

^ HORATIO HALE. 

The Eagle's Speech, 221 

Lines for my Cousin's Album 222 

BENJAMIN D. LAIGHTON. 

Lines written in May 223 

Stanzas, 225 

*• SAMUEL C. BALDWIN. 

The Voices of the Ocean 225 

.; JAMES THOMAS FIELDS. 

The Owl-Critic 226 

The Search 228 

Ballad of the Tempest, ■ 228 

The Lover's Peril 229 

A Protest, 229 

Morning and Evening by the Sea,... 230 
Agassiz, 230 

SAMUEL TENNEY HILDRETH. 

Fame and Love • 331 

JAMES WxiRREN PARMELEE. 
Ode to the South Bi-anch of Sugar 

River, 232 

Stanzas, 233 

A Smoking Reverie, 234 

JAMES OSGOOD ADAMS. 

The Dying Rose's Lament, 235 

• LUCY P. ADAMS. 

The Sunbeam, 235 

HARRIETTE VAN MATER FRENCH. 

The Friend of an Hour, 236 

The World is all Beautv, 237 

Short the Time, .' 237 

Two Maidens, 238 

JOHN RILEY VARNEY. 

To the Fire Fly 2.39 

What is Beauty? 240 

' 'CHARLES ANDERSON DANA. 

Via Sacra 241 

Manhood, 241 

ToR. B. 242 

EDWARD ERASMUS SARGEANT. 

The Indian Mother to her Son, 243 

ALBERT PERRY. 

The Grand Mouadnock, 245 

LEONARD SWAIN. 

Man is not what he wills 246 

DEBORAH G. FOSS. 

To a Spinning Wheel, 248 

All Hallow Eve 249 

SE\IEON P." HEATH. 
Extract from a poem, 250 



EDWARD DEAN RANT). 

Behind the Veil, 2.52 

In Memoriam 253 

Growing Old, 253 

WILLIAM CANT STLTJOC. 

The Poet's Mite,. 255 

Mary 256 

Washington, 256 

Lake Sunapee 257 

The Unrewarded 259 

^ EUGENE BACHELDER. 

The Union, 260 

Fair Columbia 260 

JOSEPH BRO'SVN SINHTH. 

To My Mother, 261 

Hymn, 262 

■\ DANIEL AUGUSTUS DROWN. 

Beautiful is Moonlight, 2&3 

May-Flowere, 264 

The Old Elm 265 

Jesus, My Hope, ... 266 

ADALIZA CUTLER PHELPS. 
To a Bird in Midwinter 267 

' JACOB RICHARDS DODGE. 

The Mariner's Betrothed, 26J> 

The Lovely Dead 269 

New Hampshire in the Centuries,... 270 

AVILLIAM PLUMER. 

The Blind Boy, 271 

JOHN QUINCY ADAMS WOOD. 

Invocation to Spring, 272 

Father's growing old, John, 274 

To Her who sits in Soft Attire 275 

New Hampshire 276 

The Blind Man's Evening Hymn, . . . 277 

JULIA A. A. WOOD. 

Legend of the Willow 278 

Lines for Ash Wednesday, 279 

i MARY E. BLAIR. 

Fellowship in Sufl'eriug 280 

Love is dead 282 

■ FANNIE E. FOSTER. 

The Poet's Grave 284 

GEORGE FREDERICK ICENT. 

To a California Pine 285 

To a Locomotive 285 

Sonnet to Spring, 285 

Rain in April 286 

A Brother's Plea 286 

The Voice of Peace 287 

NEHEMIAH WRIGHT. 

My Spirit Home 288 

HENRY W. HERRICK. 

The Spider's Web 289 

The Humble Bee 290 

The Tomb of Stark 291 



CONTENTS. 



XI 



J GEORGE NELSON BRYANT. 

Evenings at Home, 291 

I am the Door, 292 

Hyniuto the Mountains, 293 

CAROLINE ELIZABETH JENNESS. 

Repose 294 

Fear not 295 

The Fountain of Youth 295 

ADELINE D. T. AVHITNEY. 

Our Home-Maker, 296 

The Two Powers, 298 

MIRON JAMES ilAZELTINE. 

Tlie Awaking of Freedom, 299 

Words, 300 

TotheSea 301 

HAN^NAH BRY^VNT HAZELTINE. 

A Northern October 302 

Morning, Noon and Night 303 

Cloud Pictures 304 

^ JAMES W. BARICER. 

Darning Stockings, SOB 

One Request 306 

EDWARD A. HOSMER. 

O Give me a Home by the Sea, 308 

Remember Me, 308 

AMOS B. RUSSELL. 

Mv Border Land, 309 

Acl Astra, 309 

My Mother, 310 

Anchored 310 

WILLIAM STARK. 

Extract from Centennial Poem 311 

' ALBON H. BAILEY. 

The Village Bells 313 

To Bunker Hill Monument 314 

JUSTIN E. WALKER. 

Trust iu God 315 

A Three-Fold Aspect 316 

ASENATH C. STICIiNEY. 

Words of IS[y Saviour 317 

Universal Love 318 

EDWARD AVHITESIDE WOODDELL. 

Christmas Eve, 318 

FREDERIC A. MOORE. 

The Bachelor's Song, 319 

JOSEPH EDWARD liOOl). 

White River 320 

GEORGE PAYN QUACKENBOS. 

M V Soul's Song, 321 

The Rose 322 

The Flower aud the Tree 323 

.Song of the Butterfly 324 

The Spirit and the Bride say "Come," 325 
SAMUEL J. PIKE. 

Stanzas, 32G 

The Better Land 327 

He Giveth His Beloved Sleep, 328 

Sonnet, 3-29 

Sonnet 329 



' ENOCH GEORGE ADAMS. 

The Pond amid the Hills 330 

The Preciouiuess of Tears, 330 

JOHN BODAVELL WOOD. 

The Worth of Baubles 3.32 

Courage, Forever, 332 

One Flash of Lightning— A Telegram 
Answered, 333 

HARRIET NEWELL EATON. 

Beatitude, 334 

My Moan 334 

The Rain 335 

Old John 336 

• WILLIAM COPP FOX. 

Tom Brown's Reformation, 337 

The Wolfeborough Centennial, 339 

Lines, 340 

October, 340 

' JOSIAH MOODY FLETCHER. 

To Ailaline 342 

Adversity, 342 

Angels By and ]5v, 343 

Little Eloise, 344 

Rumnev Hills 345 

Good Wishes, 346 

Mourn not for me when I am dead,. . 346 

The Sleigh Ride, 347 

The Stolen Kiss, 348 

Lines to the American Flag 348 

The Pauper Mill, 349 

Mount Washington 349 

AURIN M. PAYS'ON. 

Sedes Musarum, 351 

SAMUEL CROFUT KEELER. 

Broken-hearted, 352 

The Silent Dead, 353 

CAROLINE E. R. PARKER. 

Our Lamb, 355 

SARAH ROBERTS BOYLE. 

The Voice of the Grass 356 

ABBIE HUNTOON MCCRILLIS. 

The Daisy 357 

JEREMIAH EAMES RA^'KIN. 

Sleep here iu peace, 358 

In Sight of the Crystal Sea, 3.")9 

After the Snow, 360 

The Babie, 361 

SILVANUS ilAYWARD. 
Lines at Sunset, 362 

To a Sleeping Inlant, 3(i2 

For the Dedication of an Album, ... 363 
Threnody, 364' 

THOJiAS P. RUSSELL. 

Lines to a Leaf 3&5 

CELESTIA S. GOOD ALE. 

The AVife to her Husband, 365 

MARY DWINELL CHELLIS LUNT). 

The Bobolink, 366 

The Water Sprite 367 

Poem, 367 



XII 



CONTENTS. 



-" MARY ELIZABETH FERGUSON 
BRETT. 

"Ball's Bluflf," 368 

Lines written for a Golden Wedding, 309 

SARAH S. CONVERSE. 

Stanzas 370 

True Beauty, 371 

Spring, 371 

ALBERT LAIGHTON. 

ToMySoul 373 

Found Dead 373 

To Mv Native River 374 

New Eniilauil 375 

Ebb an(i Flow 375 

The Dead, 375 

Bj'the Sea, 376 

Farragut 376 

BELA CHAPIN. 

The Realm of Rhadamauthus 377 

A Green Mountain Ljric 379 

The Truly Blessed, 381 

A Hymn 382 

HIRAM LADD SPENCER. 

Farewell, 383 

To My Daughter, 383 

The lladji Said 384 

Sonnet, 384 

Sonnet 385 

Sonnet, 385 

Sonnet, 386 

William Cullen Bryant, 386 

We all shall rest, 386 

A Hunih'ed Years ago 387 

Love's Burial 387 

Old 388 

RHODA H. E. KENERSON. 

To a Whippoorwlll, 389 

Moonbeams, 389 

TIMOTHY PERRY. 

Of May and of Me, .390 

To the Robin singjng in the Storm,.. 390 

JOHN ORDRONAUX. 

Shadows of the Tempter, 391 

The Chant of the Pilgi-im, 392 

Ode for the Dartmouth Centennial 

Celebration, 394 

Guide me, O thou Great Jehovah,... 395 
While Thee I seek, Protecting Power, 395 

SUSAN F. COLGATE. 

New Hampshire Hills, 395 

NATHAN FRANKLIN CARTER. 

In the Sunshine 397 

Great Thousrhts, 398 

In the Battle of Life, 399 

Loving Hearts, 399 

EDNA DEAN PROCTOR. 

The Mountain Maid 400 

New Hampshire 402 

The Dead, 406 

Contoocook River 407 

Kear sarge, 408 

At Home, 410 

O Loved and Lost, 411 



EDWARD AUGUSTUS JENKS. 

The Farm-house, 413 

The Old Man's Yesterday, 414 

The Children 415 

To a Favorite Stream, 416 

Helene 417 

Hymn, ' 418 

AMANDA JEMIMA SMART. 
"The Poor is forgotten of his neigli- 

bor, 419 

A Home in the Granite State 420 

CONSTANCE FEN^NIMORE WOOL- 
SON. 

Four-Leaved Clover, 421 

LAURA A. NORRIS. 

Stanzas 422 

Lines 4'.:2 

In Memoriam 423 

' MARY W. ELLSWORTH. 

A Lament for Gertrude, 424 

MARY E. B. MILLER. 

On Life's Threshold, 425 

• GEORGE EUGENE BELKNAP. 

Christening Hymn, 437 

Homeward Bound, 428 

GRACE WEBSTER HINSDALE. 

"LovestThouMe?" 430 

The Unbruised Grain, 431 

The Untrodden Path 431 

Listening to the Sea, 433 

Raphael's Madonna Di San Sisto, 434 

CAROLINE ANASTASIA SPALDING. 

Architecture 436 

Mary Lvon 438 

The Quaker Meeting 439 

The Old Man of the Mountain, 440 

Whither? 442 

His Own 444 

Angels this side, 445 

Heaven, 445 

SAMUEL BURNHAM. 

Exti-act from a College Poem, 446 

Inner Life 448 

"Dum YivimuB Vivamus," 449 

Decoration Hymn, 449 

To my Grandmother, 450 

Cradle Song ^ 451 

MARTHA J.'hEYWOOD. 

Rest, 452 

Trust, 462 

Alice, 453 

Falling, Falling 454 

Proverb Poem, 454 

JOHN WESLEY AD.UIS. 

The Bible,.... 456 

Our Baby 456 

GEORGE W. OSGOOD. 

Welcome to Spring 457 

The Loved and the Lost, 458 

DAVID H. HILL. 

Chocorua, 459 

Squam Lake, 467 



CONTENTS. 



XIII 



MARY BLAKE LAXE 
The Deaf Girl's Thought of Music, ... 468 



The Land of the Livins" 



469 



HENRY OAKES KENT. 

Onward! 470 

Welcome Home, 471 

Bertie 472 

SARAH H. FOSTER. 
On the Death of a First-born Child,.. 473 

Stanzas, 474 

HrVRRIET MCEWEN KIMBALL. 
"The Blessed Company of all Faith- 
ful People," 475 

Thou art a Place to hide me in, 477 

Hymn for Advent 478 

A Hymn of Contrition, 478 

Jesus my Rcfui;e, 479 

The Light of Life, 480 

Vale, 480 

■ LUCY ROGERS HILL CROSS. 

A Song of the Hour,.; 481 

Scenes from Real Life, 482 

MARY M. ROBINSON. 

The Old Clock, 484 

May 22, 1882, 484 

The Song of Life, 48.i 

A Retrospect 485 

MARY A. A. SENTER. 

Are there no Memories? 480 

Hoping in vain, 487 

MATTIE E. SMITH. 
Hope on! Hope ever! 488 

' GEORGE GORDON BYRON DE 
WOLFE. 

Louisa's Grave, 489 

Lines, 490 

AUGUSTA COOPER BRISTOL. 

The Higher Life, 491 ! 

ThePvxidauthera, 493 

Song of Childhood, 494 

The Web of Life, 495 

What the Roses said, 496 

LAURA GARLAND CARR. 

In the Woods, 497 

WhataPity! 498 

The Wood Thrush 499 

A Garden, 500 

An April Night, 501 

A Mountain Pasture 602 

The wa}' to Grandpa's, 50:j 

Shut in", .505 

Bv the River, 606 

Lkht 507 

Off, .508 

A Lane, 509 

MARY H. AVHEELER. 

Apple Blooms, 510 

Saturday Night, 511 

A Serenade, 511 

A Plea, 512 

My Grandma's Loom 513 

Digging for Gold, 514 

Waf-Song of Kancamagus, 516 

Song of the Frog, old 



CELIA THAXTER. 

The Wreck of the Pocahontas 519 

A Tryst 52I 

Sorrow, .;; 523 

OSCAR LAIGHTON. 

Song, 524 

Song, 525 

At Sunset 505 

Her Shawl 526 

. WARREN ROBERT COCHRANE. 

A Home Missionary Hymn 526 

Thanks for the Years, 527 

The Morning Call, .528 

Near, 529 

JULIA VAN NESS WHIPPLE. 

Pearls 530 

The Voice amid the Trees, 530 

SARAH M. PARKER. 

Gospel Bells, 582 

Home, 534 

MATTIE FRANCES JONES. 

Will it be always Night? 535 

Have Faith am"! Persevere, 536 

CHARLOTTE M. PALMER. 

Faith, 537 

A Hymn of Trust, 538 

- THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. 

Enamored Architect of Airy Rhyme, 539 

sleep, 539 

Tita's Tears— A Fantasy, 539 

. GEORGE DUDLEY DODGE. 

Peace be still, 541 

NANCY PRIEST WAKEFIELD. 

Over the River, 542 

Heaven, 543 

DANIEL L. MILLIKEN. 

Garfield 544 

In Winter, 545 

L.VVINIA PATTERSON WEEKS. 

Spirit Voices, 546 

"Hope on — Hope ever," 547 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning 548 

EDWARD P. NOWELL. 

In Memoriam 549 

EDAVARD A. RAND. 

Sing, Bonny Bird! 5.50 

The Ship in the Sunshine, .551 

Rain on the Roof .5.52 

Pond-Lilies, 552 

FRANCIS ORMOND FRENCH. 
Extract from a Class Day Poem, 553 

* DAVID GRAHAM ADEE. 

At Rome, 557 

Four Phases 558 

Shelley, 559 

\ HENRY AMES BLOOD. 

The Chimney-Nook, 559 

Jcnnnette, 561 

The Dealli of the Old Year, 563 

The Invisible Piper .564 

Yearnings 565 



XIV 



CONTENTS. 



LEANDER S. COAN. 

The Same Old Flag 667 

Water Lilies 569 

ABBA GOOLD WOOLSON. 

To a Pansy, 569 

The Departing Year 570 

Good Kight, 571 

HOMER TAYLOR FULLER. 

Jewels 573 

"Straightway," 574 

-1 EMILY GRAHAM HAYWARD. 

The M^reath of Love 575 

Lines, 575 

LYDIA H. TILTON. 

All Things, 576 

The Bridal Wreath 577 

Furnishing the House, 578 

The Kiss at the Door 579 

CLARA B. HEATH. 

Water Lilies, 580 

Blueberrying 581 

Transformed 582 

Sea Mosses 583 

The Great Reward 584 

STEPHEN H. THAYER. 

On the Banks of the Souhegan, 585 

The Bells of Nyack 586 

A June Song ,'588 

Twilight Contrasted 588 

Uninterpreted ."isg 

Great Temple of Karnak 590 

A Parting Song, ,%i 

A Voice from the Sea 591 

■^ MIRANDA M. GORRELL. 

Looking Across the Vale, 592 

Out of the Depths, 594 

• HELEN A. F. COCHRANE. 

Oh Stay, 590 

Parted 597 

Across the Sea 598 

ANNIE B.^ HOLBROOK. 

"It is beautiful there," 600 

Hymn 601 

Poem, 601 

HELEN MAR BEAN. 

Waiting 603 

Yesterday and To-day 604 

MARY R. P.^HATCH. 
One by one, 606 

The Weary Sower, 606 

Count your Mercies,. 607 

Patrick's Letter 608 

ARVILLA ALMIRA WOODWARD. 
Thinking, 609 

GEORGE BANCROFT GRIFFITH. 

The Webster Homestead, 610 

The Storm at Fort Point, 611 

The Date Garden of the Desert, G12 

The Chime in the Andes, 614 

Twilight 615 



MARY ELIZABETH HOBBS. 

June 616 

Dis-illusion 616 

Miserere, 618 

CHARLES CHASE LORD. 

FleurdeLis, 619' 

Heroism, 620 

The Robe of White 621 

ANNIE DOUGLAS ROBINSON. 

Dorcas, 622 

The Yellow Cottage, 624 

Patience Dow 625 

■ CLARK B, COCHRANE. 

The Days of Long Ago 626 

Noon liv Lake Sunapee, 628 

The Old Red House on the Hill, 629 

To Old Joe English, (x50 

i FRANK O. EVERETT. 

Mabel, 633 

ELIZABETH MARTIN. 

"Love one another," 6.34 

Consecratiiin 634 

Hour of Worship 635 

JAMES G. RUSSELL. 

"What lack I yet?" 635 

J BARON SAMUEL CROWELL. 

Charity 636 

THOMAS FRANCIS LEAHY. 

The Men of Former Davs, ()37 

Mollv's Beau '. 638 

The Hose of Keene 639 

HENRY LAUREN.S TALBOT. 

"I shall see Him as He is," 641 

The War-Cry, 641 

Lines, 642 

Egbert, my departed Boy 642 

LYDIA FRANCES CAMP. 

In Memory Bright, 643 

CLARA FELLOWS MACIONTIRE. 

Musings, 644 

Autumn, 646 

MARY HELEN BOODEY. 

October JIusings 647 

Three Little Blue Bonnets 649 

After 1 (lie, 650 

"Voices of Heart and Home," 651 

A Dream, 6.52 

We shall meet again, 653 

* ADDISON FRANCIS BROWNE. 

Two Scenes, 654 

Moonlight in September 655 

One Look 6.56 

Sleep 656 

' ADELAIDE G. BENNETT. 

The New-born Year 658 

'^ JOHN ADAMS BELLOWS. 

The Poet 6,59 

Two Pictures 660 

SYLVIA A. MOSS. 
How happy 661 



CONTENTS. 



XV 



RHODA BARTLETT SEYMOUR. 

October 6<52 

A Measure, fi6-2 

A Home Picture, 663 

ALFRED AVILLIAM SARGENT. 

Wisdom ami Power Divlue 663 

' HORACE B. BAKER. 

Winter 665 

J ANABEL C. ANDREWS. 

Evening, 666 

At Rest, 666 

Eventide 667 

•/ EDWARD JOHN COLCORD. 

Action 668 

Farewell 668 

* FRANK HENRY CARLTON. 

The Divine Plan ,. 669 

ISABEL C.^GREENE. 

My Love — a song, 669 

ELLEN MCROBERTS MASON. 

A Christmas Memory, 670 

My Dead Love, 671 

l^nrecoiu'ileil 67i 

My Monitor, 673 

•< CLARA E. BOLLES. 

"Jesus on the Shore," 673 

Thoughts, 674 

BESSIE BISBEE HUNT. 

Knitting 675 

Moving, 676 

A Deep Secret, 677 

.; LORA ELLA CHELLIS. 

Heart's-Ease 678 

Autumn Leaves, 678 

The Gentians 679 

4 LETITIA M. ADAMS. 

Violets, 680 

From Shore to Shore 681 

GRACE E. PICKERING. 

Rested 682 

LUCY BENTLEY WIQGIN. 

The Life that now is, 683 

Thanksgiving Day 684 

EDITH E. WIGGIN. 

Advent, 684 

October Violets 685 

MELVIN J. MESSER. 
Kearsarge 686 

Ultima Thule, 687 

. GEORGE S. DORR. 

New England Homesteads, 688 

The Minstrel's Summer Home 690 

CHARLES FRANCIS RICHARDSON. 

Child's Hymn at Nightfall, 692 

Service 693 

Comfort 693 

Hope 694 

Sacrifice, 6W 

Worship, 695 

StrLiigth, 695 

Imiiatiou, 695 



J GEORGE WALDO BROWNE. 

Ever Changing, 696 

Ahvavs look up 696 

Mount Pawtuckaway, 697 

HORACE EATON WALKER. 

The Seamstress 699 

ALTHINE FLORENCE SHOLES. 

Apple Blosspms, 700 

Dreaming mid the Clover, 701 

SARAH ELIZABETH LANE. 

A Wish, vol 

Under the Elms 702 

Good-bye ''03 

LIDA C. TULLOCK. 

Forgive the Dead, "03 

Lilacs, '01 

KATE J. KIMBALL. 

Hvmn JO-^ 

Where Jesus leads '05 

To the White Violet, "06 

\ IDA G. ADAMS. 

Enid "0' 

WILLIAM HALE. 

Life's Sculptor, 107 

To my River, the Piscataqua, (08 

CHARLES EDWARD SARGENT. 

In Units' Place 103 

Buil<ling Castles in the Air ^09 

The Fruitless Search, '10 

In the Dark ril follow Thee 'H 

FRED CUTTER PILLSBURY. 

The Old Man of the Mountain 712 

The Eclipse, i}3 

Hampton Beach '13 

ABBIE NELSIA PARTRIDGE. 

Drifting, 114 

Human Faces i^ 

Hidden Worth, '15 

- W1LLL^3I A. BARTLETT. 

Sloestitia, J|16 

CEdipus, ' 1 ' 

CARRIE WHITE OSGOOD. 

The Bacliclor's Proposal 71S 

Throwing Kisses "18 

Eventide 1-2, 

A Waif ^'^0 

Trilling, 21 

' SAMUEL WALTER FOSS. 

The perfect Song 722 

The Brook and thp Pine 722 

ANNE PARMELEE. 

Sunset, J"^ 

Hannnock Reverie, ^.-4 

Sonnet to Lake Sunapee '24 

Raphaeland Michael Augelo, 724 

EMMA CILVDBOURNE WOOD. 

The Daisy ^-6 

"Good-bv, Papa," '28 

LOTTA BLANCHE SMITH. 
My Love ~'^~ 



XVI 



CONTENTS. 



CHARLES WHEELER COIT. 

Tay Bridge 728 

GEORGE WILLI8 PATTERSON. 

A Hymn, ...■ 730 

Venice 730 

Solitude, 731 

ETTA UDORA FRENCH. 

A Prayer, 731 

Death and Resurrection, 732 

Questions 7.33 

The Golden City, 734 

Thomas, 734 

* JAMES MEADE ADAMS. 

October, 73.5 

Lad and Lassie, 736 

Isabel Deane 737 

ANNIE E. DE WOLFE. 

Une Pensee 737 

FANNIE HLTNTINGTON RUNNELS. 

The Poet's Dream 738 

LULU E. TREVITT. 

New Year's Eve, 741 

An Ideal, 742 

In Embryo, 743 

MAY E. PERLEY. 

A Morning in July, 743 

FRANCIS DANA. 

A Dream, 743 

HUBBARD ALONZO BARTON. 

Devotion, 745 

MARTHA ALMA PIPER. 

Saturday Eve, 746 

CAROLINE E. WHITON. 

Summer Sunset, 747 

JAMES P. WALKER. 

Seven Years To-day, 747 

CATILVRINE M. MCCLINTOCK. 
Death in Spring 748 

S. ADAMS WIGGIN. 

Love, 749 

SAMUEL HUDSON PARTRIDGE. 

Hymn, 750 

CHARLES L. WHELER. 
The Smile, 750 

. IRA HARRIS COUCH. 

Sonnet to a Crichet 751 

Twilight, 751 

ALFRED LITTLE. 

My Merry Maple Grove, 7.52 

JAMES WILLIS PATTERSON. 

Eventide 753 

MARY GIBSON FRANCIS. 

Too Late, 754 

SARAH THERESA WASON. 
Almost Home, 755 



' MARY MOORE GLOVER EDDY. 

Old Man of the Mountain, 755 

LYDIA A. SWAZEY OBEAR. 
Welcome to an Infant Granddaugh- 
ter 756 

Hymn, 757 

NANCY D. CURTIS. 

Music at Midnight, 757 

ANDREW MCFARLAND. 

The Mother's Prayer, 758 

LEONARD HEATH. 

The Grave of Napoleon 760 

MARY LITTLE ROGERS. 

Mark VII. 32-37 761 

"All Thy Works shall praise Thee, 

O Lord," 761 

WILLIAM D. LOCKE. 

Centennial Year— 1875 763 

Response, etc ,. 764 

SAMUEL M. DE MERRITT. 

To , 764 

God and Our Neighbor, 765 

LYDIA M. HALL. 

Lines 765 

ELVIRA A. GIBSON. 

A Dream, 766 

MARION MEANS SLT.LIVAN. 

The Field of Monterey, 766 

The Blue Juniata, 767 

MARY ANN SULLIVAN. 
My Grandmother's Elm, 768 

• MARY M. CULVER. 
Lines, 768 

' JOHN ADAMS DIX. 
Dies Iras, 770 

NATHANIEL GREENE. 

To my Daughter in Heaven, 771 

Petrarch and Laura, 772 

• ALEXANDER HILL EVERETT. 

The Young American, 773 

MARY CLARK. 
To Lafayette, 773 

FREDERICK KNIGHT. 
Faith, 774 

PHEBE KNIGHT MOODY. 

My Cottage, 775 

Extract from an Epistle to a young 

friend 775 

CORNELIUS STURTEVANT. 

Sonnet, 777 

. SAMUEL PHILBRICK BAILEY. 

My Pilgrimage, 778 

ANONYMOUS. 
When shall we three meet again? ... 779 



POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 



Samuel J^abeit. 



Samuel Haven, D. D., was born in 1727. He was ordained minister of Ihe South 
Church in Portsmouth, May 6, 1752. He died March 3, 1806. 



THE PRAISE OF ANGELS. 

Let cherub and let cherubim 
Clap their blest wings in praise of Him ; 
And all their powers in rapture raise, 
While their great object is his praise. 

He formed their nature like his own, 
And placed their ranks around his throne ; 
But conscious distance veiled their face : 
They bowed, adoring wondrous grace. 

Ye first-born sons of early da}', 
Sing to his praise, his will obey ; 
And while you fly from pole to pole. 
And other systems round you roll, 

You'll aid his praise, till all at last, 
When ages j'et unborn are passed, 
Centre in one, — in one great throng. 
In perfect unison their song. 

Angels and men their voice shall raise 
In sweetest concert to his praise : 
The great Messiah then shall shine. 
Arrayed in glories all divine, — 
The head of angels and of men, 
Uniting all to God again. 



POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 



ON RESIGNATION AND HOPE IN GOD UNDER 
TROUBLES. 

Be still my heart, be mute my tongue ; 
Thou ne'er, as yet, hast suffered wrong : 
A Father's love inflicts the rod, 
To bring thee nearer to thy God. 

Do thunders roar and billows roll ? 
Do tempests beat upon thy soul ? 
They are 'directed by his hand. 
To drive thee to the promised land. 

Great Lord of all ! thy will is just : 
"We rest secure ; we firmly trust. 
That what thy will approves as good 
Results alike from all of God. 

Thy wisdom, power, and grace combine 
To prove the whole an act divine : 
E'en justice here unites with grace. 
And shines with lustre in thy face. 

Shall mortals then contend on earth? 
Shall the}' forget their humble birth. 
And quarrel with the Power above. 
Or dare dispute that God is love. 

Hush, murmuring thoughts ! my tongue be still, 
M}"" heart resign to Heaven's high will ; 
Trust all to him, — he can't deceive : 
The humble soul shall surely live. 



Jeremg li3clknap. 

Jeremy Belknap was born In Boston, Mass., June 4, 1744. He graduated at 
Harvard College in 1762. In 1767 he was ordained as a preacher anil became pas- 
tor of a church in Dover, where he remained twenty years. In 17S7 he removed to 
Boston and became pastor, of the Federal Street Church. He died suddenly, of 
paralysis, June 20, 1798. His History of New Hampshire, in three volumes, was 
published in 1792. He published several works, among which was a Collection of 
Fsalms and Hymns. Several of the hvrans were written by himself, but published 
without his name. Those here given are believed to be of his authorship. 



PRUDENCE. 

O 'tis a lovely sight to see 

A man of prudent heart ! 
Whose thoughts and lips and life agree 

To act a useful part. 



JEREMY BELKNAP. 



When envy, strife and wars begin 

In little angry souls, 
Mark how the sons of peace come in, 

And quench the kindling coals. 

Their minds are humble, mild and meek, 

Nor does their anger rise ; 
Nor passion moves their lips to speak, 

Nor pride exalts their e^es. 

Their lives are prudence mixed with love ; 

Good works emplo}' their da}' ; 
They join the serpent with the dove, 

But cast the sting away. 

Such was the Saviour of mankind ; 

Such pleasures he pursued ; 
His manners gentle and refined. 

His soul divinel}- good. 



RE ANIMATION. 

From thee, great Lord of life and death, 
Do we receive our vital breath ; 
And at thy sov'reign call, resign 
That vital breath, that gift divine. 

Wilt thou show wonders to the dead? 
Wilt thou revive the lifeless head ? 
And, from the silence of the grave, 
Wilt thou the wretched victim save ? 

Such wonders, formerly unknown, 
Thy providence to us hath shown ; 
To feeble man thou dost impart 
The plastic, life-redeeming art. 

We bless thee for the skill and power, 
From death's appearance to restore 
This nice machine of curious frame, 
And light again the vital flame. 

May every life b}- thee restored 

Be consecrated to tlie Lord ; 

]May pious love inspire each breast, 

Which has th}' saving hand confessed. 

Again they must resign their breath. 
And sink beneath the stroke of death ; 
When from that death they shall revive, 
May each with thee in glory live. 



POETS OF NEW HAMPSEIRE. 



CHRIST'S COMMISSION TO PREACH THE GOSPEL. 

Thus spake the Saviour, when he sent 

His ministers to preach his word ; 
They through the world obedient went, 

And spread the gospel of the Lord. 

"Go forth, ye heralds, in my name, 
Bid the whole earth ra}' grace receive ; 

The gospel jubilee proclaim, 

And call them to repent and live. 

"The joyful news to all impart. 

And teach them where salvation lies ; 
Bind up the broken, bleeding heart, 

And wipe the tear from weeping e3-es. 

"Be wise as serpents where ^'ou go. 

But harmless as the peaceful dove ; 
And let 3'our heaven-taught conduct show 

That you're commissioned from above. 

"Freely from me jq have received, 

Freel}', in love, to others give ; 
Thus shall your doctrines be believed, 

And, by your labors, sinners live. 

"All power is trusted in my hands, 

I will protect you and defend ; 
Whilst thus 3'ou follow my commands, 

I'm with you till the world shall end." 

Happy those servants of the Lord, 

Who thus their Master's will obey ! 
How rich, how full is their reward, 

Reserved until the final daj^ ! 



THE GOD OF NATURE. 

Hail, King supreme ! all wise and good ! 

To thee our thoughts we raise ; 
Whilst nature's lovel}' charms, displayed, 

Inspire our souls with praise. 

At morning, noon, and evening mild, 
Thy works engage our view ; 

And as we gaze, our hearts exult 
With transports ever new. 



JEREMY BELKNAP. 



Thy glorj- beams in every star 
Which gilds the gloom of night ; 

And decks the rising face of morn 
With rays of cheering light. 

Th' aspiring hill, the verdant lawn, 
With thousand beauties shine ; 

The vocal grove and cooling shade 
Proclaim th\- power divine. 

From tree to tree, a constant h3'mn 
Employs the feathered throng ; 

To thee their cheerful notes the}- swell, 
And chant their grateful song. 

Great nature's God ! still may these scenes 

Our serious hours engage ; 
Still maj' our wondering eyes pursue 

Thy work's instructive page. 



OBEDIENCE TO GOD OUR FATHER. 

O God, my Father, I adore 

That all-commanding name ; 
It will my soul to hfe restore, 

And kindle all my flame. 

Entire I bow at thy commands. 

My filial homage pay ; 
With heart and life, with tongue and hands, 

I'll cheerfully obey. 

I'll wilfully no more transgress, 

As I too oft have done ; 
But every sinful thought suppress. 

Each sinful action shun. 

Each day live I'll seek with care 

My Father well to please ; 
And in this course will persevere. 

By thine assisting grace. 

Thus will I my relation claim, 

And call myself thy son ; 
And, whilst I bear the glorious name. 

My Father's rights will own. 



POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 



I will ; but thou must strength impart, 

This promise to fulfil ; 
Lord, write thy law upon my heart, 

That I may do thy will. 



MARRIAGE. 

Mj'sterious rite ! by Heaven ordained 

This sacred truth to prove, 
The bliss which mortals here enjoy. 

Must flow from virtuous love. 

Though made hy God's almighty hand. 

And in his image formed ; 
Yet Adam knew no happiness, 

Till love his bosom warmed. 

Eden, with all its beauteous groves, 

And fruits of richest taste, 
To one for social bliss designed 

Was but a lonely waste. 

But when his lovely bride appeared, 

In native graces drest. 
The latent spark burst into flame. 

And love inspired his breast. 

What wise provision hast thou made, 

Great Parent of mankind, 
That all thine offspring may enjoy 

The bliss for them designed ! 

Then will we join our hearts and hands 

In bonds of virtuous love ; 
And whilst we live in peace below. 

Prepare for bliss above. 



LINES 

Found among the author's papers after his death. 

When faith arid patience, hope and love. 
Have made us meet for heaven above. 
How blest the privilege to rise 
Snatched in a moment to the skies ! 
Unconscious to resign our breath. 
Nor taste the bitterness of death. 



JONATHAN MITCHEL SEWALL. 



Such be my lot, Lord, if thou please, 

To die in silence and at ease. 

When thou dost know that I'm prepared, 

O seize me quick to my reward. 

But if th}^ wisdom sees it best 

To turn thine ear from this request — 

If sickness be the appointed way, 

To waste this frame of human cla}' ; 

If, worn with grief and racked with pain. 

This earth must turn to earth again ; 

Then let thine angels roiuid me stand — 

Support me by thj' powerful hand ; 

Let not my faith or patience move, 

Nor aught abate ni}' hope or love ; 

But brighter ma}' tliy graces shine. 

Till they're absorbed in light divine. 



Jonatijan Hflitdjcl S^^all. 

J.M. Sewall was born in Salem, Mass., in 1748. He graduated at Harvard Col- 
lege, and in 1774 was Kegister of Probate for Grafton County. He afterwards went 
to Portsmoutli, where lie reni;iiiie(l until liis fleatli in 1808. He published a small 
volume in I8(il, entitlecl "Miscellaiienus I'oems, with several specimens from the 
author's version of the I'oenis of Os.sian." His lyrics warmed the patriotism and 
cheered the hearts of the soldiers of the Revolution in the perils of the battle and 
the privations of the camp. 



THE SEASONS. 

SPRING. 

Soft gales to Winter's chilling blasts succeed ; 
Perfumed with odors, blooms the enamelled mead ; 
Re-echoing music fills the vocal grove. 
Inspiring every sense with joy and love ; 
Nature to its great Author homage pays, 
Glowing with rapture, gratitude, and praise. 

SUMMER. 

See, glowing ether sheds one boundless blaze ! 
Unclouded Phcebus darts intense his rays : 
Mercy ! not one kind breeze ? Ye clouds, arise ; 
Melt in soft showers, and mitigate the skies. 
Enough, I hear the distant thunder's voice : 
Rejoice ! it pours amain ; ye grateful fields, rejoice ! 

AUTUMN. 

Adieu, ye vernal fields : now Autumn reigns, 
Unloads her gifts, rewards the peasant's pains. 



POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 



Then, while your crowded barns scarce hold the grain, 
Unasked, like Boaz, let the stranger glean : 
More plenteous crops shall crown each fertile vale, 
Nor your rich, ponderous harvests ever fail. 

WINTER. 

Winter, dread "Winter reigns ! each joy o'ercasts. 
Involved in tempests, armed with piercing blasts ! 
Nature's locked up ! whole rivers as they run. 
To flint converted, mock the feeble sun ; 
Enrobed in fleecy garb the fields are bright, 
Revealing to the eye one boundless, shining white. 



ANNIVERSARY SONG. 

"When our great sires this land explored, 
A shelter from tyrannic wrong ; 

Led on by heaven's Almighty Lord, 
They sung and acted well the song, — 

Arise united ! dare be freed ! 

Our souls shall vindicate the deed. 

In vain the region they would gain 
Was distant, dreary, undisclosed ; 

In vain the Atlantic roared between, 
And hosts of savages opposed. 

They rushed undaunted : Heaven decreed 

Their sons should vindicate the deed. 

'Twas Freedom led the wanderers forth, 

And manly fortitude to bear : 
They toiled, succeeded, — such high worth 

Is always Heaven's peculiar care. 
Their great example still inspires. 
Nor dare we act beneath our sires. 

'Tis ours undaunted to defend 

The dear-bought, rich inheritance ; 

And, spite of everj^ hostile hand. 

We'll fight, bleed, die ! in its defence ; 

Pursue our fathers' path to fame, 

And emulate their glorious flame. 

As Jove's high plant inglorious stands. 
Till storms and thunders root it fast ; 

So stood our new, unpractised bands. 
Till Britain waved her stormy blast. 



JONATHAN MITCEEL SEWALL. 



Her soon they vanquished, fierce led on 
By Freedom and great AVashington ! 

Hail, godlike hero ! born to save ! 

Ne'er shall thy deathless laurels fade, 
But on thy brow eternal wave, 

And consecrate blest Vernon's shade ; 
Thy spreading glories still increase, 
Till earth and time and nature cease. 



PARAPHRASE OF THE LAST CHAPTER OF 
ECCLESIASTES. 

While life's warm current revels in each vein. 

And youth, health, joy, uninterrupted reign. 

Attend the dictates of celestial truth, 

Remember thy Creator in thy youth. 

Before the evil days come hastening on. 

When thou shalt say, "My every joy is flown ; 

Ere day's bright orb, and milder queen of night. 

With every twinkling star, withhold their light ; 

When azure skies no more succeed the rain, 

But clouds, insolving clouds, return again ; 

When palsies seize the trembling limbs, and make 

The strong men bow ! the palace-keepers quake ! 

The lessening grinders from their office fail, 

While darkness round the windows spreads her veil. 

In every street the sullen portals close, 

And the cock's clarion interrupts repose ; 

Imaginary snares the way beset, 

The tumbling ruin, the deep yawning pit ; 

While ceaseless terrors every sense alarm ; 

Even Music's tuneful daughters cease to cliarm. 

Strewn o'er with blossoms, blooms the almond-tree ; 

The grasshopper a burthen seems to be ; 

Life's glimmering taper shoots a feeble fire, 

Just ready in the socket to expire ; 

All sense of joy extinguished, all desire. 

Till man to liis long-destined home is borne. 

And the slow minstrels through the cit}- mourn. 

Ere the fine silver cord be snapt in twain. 

Or broke the golden bowl that holds the brain ; 

The wheel around its cistern cease to turn, 

Or at Life's fountain fails the vital urn. 

Then shall the dust return to earth again, 

The soul to God ascend, with him to reign. 



10 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 



^rjomas 13altitom. 



Thomas BaWwin, D. D., was a Baptist clergyman, and, in his early ministry, was 
pastor of a church in Canaan. While there he wrote several hymns. He was 
Dorn in Norwich, Conn., in 1753, and died in ]8'25. The hymn here given was composed 
during a night journey from Newport to Canaan. There had heen disaffection in 
the church at Newport and his visit there had resulted in bringing about a "union 
of the saints. " 



THE UNION OF THE SAINTS. 

From whence doth this union arise, 
That hatred is conquered by love? 

It fastens our souls in such ties 

As distance and time can't remove. 

It cannot in Eden be found, 

Nor yet in Paradise lost ; 
It grows on Immanuel's ground. 

And Jesus' dear blood it did cost. 

My brethren are dear unto me, 
Our hearts are united in love ; 

Where Jesus is gone we shall be. 
In yonder blest mansions above. 

Why then so unwilling to part, 

Since there we shall all meet again ; 

Engraved on Immanuel's heart, 
At a distance we cannot remain. 

O when shall we see that bright day, 
And join with the angels above, 

Set free from these prisons of clay, 
United in Jesus' dear love. 

With him we shall evermore reign. 
And all his bright glories shall see, 

Singing, Hallelujah, Amen ! 
Amen, even so let it be. 



The " Rustic Bard," as he is called, was born in Windham, October 7, 1757. At 
twenty vears of age he fought at the battle of Saratoga. He became a farmer, and 
passed his long life in his native town. He had but a scanty education. A volume 
of his poems was published in 1828. His poetry seems to have come by nature. 
It had its sentiment and its Doric humor, which did not disdain very homely reali- 
ties, as in the account of his illness, of which the reader will be satisfied on the 
production of a single stanza: 



ROBERT DINSMOOR. 11 

" With senna, salts, and castor oil. 

They ihriu-lied me every little while; 
The stix)!!-;- (lisrase such power could foil, 

To yiold full loth ; 

At leligtli we found the foe recoil, 

At the hot bath." 

"The last time I saw him," \\Tite3 J. G. Whittier, "he was chaffering in the 
market-place o( my native village (Haverhill), swapping potatoes, and onions, and 
pumpkins, for tea, coftee, molasses, and, if the truth be told, New England rum. He 
stood stoutly and sturdily in his thick shoes of cowhide, like one accustomed to 
tread independently the soil of his own acres — his broad, honest fai'c, seamed by 
care and darkcne<l by exposure to 'all the airs that blow,' and his white hair llowiug 
in patriarchal glory beneath his felt hat. Peace to him. In the ancient burial- 
ground of Wiudhain, by the side of his 'beloved Molly,' and in view of the old 
meetinghouse, there is a green mound of earth, where, every spring, gi'eeu grasses 
tremljle in the wind, and the warm sunshine calls out the flowers. There, gathered 
like one of liis own ripe sheaves, the farmer-poet sleeps with liis fathers.' 



THE POET'S FAREWELL TO THE MUSES. 

Forbear, my friend, withdraw your plea, 
Ask not a song from one like lue, 

O'ercast witli clouds of sorrow. 
M}' spring of life and summer's fled, 
I mourn those darling comforts dead. 

Regardless of to-morrow ! 
My harp is on the willow hung, 

Nor dissipates the gloom ; 
Mj' sweetest minstrel's all unstrung, 

And silent as the tomb. 

My lute, too, is mute too, 

While drops the trickling tear ; 

My organ makes jargon. 

And grates ni}- wounded ear. 

Farewell, you mould'ring mansion, there 
Where first I drew tlie natal air. 

And learned to prate and plaj-. 
There rose a little filial band. 
Beneath kind parents' fostering hand — 

Their names let live for aye ! 
They taught their ofl^spring there to read 

And hymn their INIaker's praise. 
To say their catechism and creed, 

And shun all vicious ways. 

The}-, careful and prayerful. 

Their pious precepts pressed, 

AVith ample example 

Their children still were blessed. 

Kind man, mj- guardian and my sire, 
Friend of the muse ami poet's lyre, 



12 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

With genuine wit and glee 
Thou sweetl}' did thy numbers glide, 
When, all delighted by his side, 

He read his verse to me. 
The parallel was drawn between 

The freedom we possessed, 
And where our fathers long had been 

By lords and bishops pressed. 

His rhj'me then did chime then 

Like music through my heart ; 

Desiring, aspii'ing, 

I strove to gain his art. 

No more I'll tune the poet's Ijre, 
No more I'll ask the muses' fire. 

To warm m}- chilling breast ; 
No more I'll feel the genial flame. 
Nor seek a poet's deathless fame. 

But silent sink to rest. 
Farewell, the mount called Jenny's Hill — 

Ye stately oaks and pines ! 
Farewell, yon prett}' purling rill, 
Which from its brow declines, 
Meandering and wandering 
The woodbines sweet among, 
Where pleasure could measure 
The bobylinkorn's song. 

On summer evenings, calm and bright. 
O'er 3'onder summit's tOAvering height, 

With pleasure did I roam ; 
Perhaps to seek the robin's young, 
Or list the mavis' warbling tongue, 

And bring the heifers home — 
See from my foot the nighthawk rise, 

And leave her unfledged pair. 
Then quick descending from the skies, 

Like lightning cut the air. 

The hares there, she scares there, 

And through the pines they trip. 

They're sought then, and caught then. 

By my companion. Skip. 

Andover's steeples there were seen. 
While o'er the vast expanse between, 

I did with wonder gaze ; 
There, as it were beneath my feet, 



ROBERT DINSMOOR. 13 



I viewed 1113' father's pleasant seat — 

My jo}' in j-ounger da3-s. 
There Windham Range, in flowery vest, 

Was seen in robes of green, 
While Gobbet's Pond, from east to west, 

Spx'ead her bright waves between. 

Cows lowing, cocks crowing, 

W^hile frogs on Gobbet's shore. 

Lay croaking, and mocking 

The bull's tremendous roar. 

The fields no more their glories wear, 
The forests now stand bleak and bare, 

All of their foliage stript ; 
The rosy lawn, the flowery mead, 
Where lambkins used to pla}- and feed. 

By icy fingers nipt. 
No more I'll hear with ravished ears, 

The music of the wood ; 
Sweet scenes of youth, now gone with years 

Long pass'd be3'ond the flood. 

Bereaved and grieved, 

I solitary' wail. 

With sighing and crying. 

My drooping spirits fail. 

No more will I the Spring Brook trace, 

No more with sorrow view the place 
Where Mary's wash-tub stood ; 

No more I'll wander there alone, 

And lean upon the mossy stone, 

W^here once she piled her wood. 

'Twas there she bleached her linen cloth, 
B}' yonder bass-wood tree ; 

From that sweet stream she made her broth, 
Her pudding and her tea. 
Whose rumbling and tumbling 
O'er rocks with quick despatch. 
Made ringing and singing. 
None but her voice could match. 

Farewell, sweet scenes of rural life, 
M}' faithful friends and loving wife, 

But transient blessings all. 
Bereft of those, I sit and mourn ; 
The sjmng of life will ne'er return, 

Chill death grasps great and small ; 



14 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

I fall before thee, God of truth ! 
O, hear my pra3'er and or}' ! 

Let me.enjo}' immortal youth, 
With saints -above the sky. 
Th}' praise there, I'll raise there, 
With all my heart and soul. 
Where pleasure and treasure, 
In boundless oceans roll. 



Mrs. Sarah Porter was author of a poem which is almost forgotten. The title of 
it is, "The Koyal Penitent, in three parts; to wliich is added David's Lamentation 
over Saul an(l Jonathan. By Mrs. Sarah Porter, of Plymouth, New Ilamijshire. 
Concord, George Hough, 1791." It tilled nineteen pages in duodcfimo. In vol. 3 of 
Kettell's American Poets is found a portion of the poem filling three pages. Only 
an extract is here given. 



THE ROYAL INFANT. 

2 Samuel, Chapter xii. 

Death's angel now, commissioned by the Lord, 

O'er the fond infant holds the fatal sword ; 

From the dread sight the frantic father turns. 

And, clad in sackcloth, in his chamber mourns ; 

The monitor, within the royal breast, 

Tliat long had slept, now roused at length from rest. 

Holds forth a mirror to the aching sight, 

Seizes the mind that fain would take its flight. 

Bids it look in : — and first, Uriah stood. 

Armed for the fight, as yet unstained with blood ; 

Courage and care were on his brow combined. 

To show the hero and the patriot joined : 

Next, pale and lifeless, on his warlike shield, 

The soldiers bore him from the bloody field. 

"And is it thus?" the royal mourner said, 

"And has ni}' hand performed the dreadful deed? 

Was I the wretch that gave thee to the foe. 

And bade thee sink beneath the impending blow ? 

Bade CA^er}' friend and hero leave th}' side? 

Open, O earth ! and in thy bosom hide 

A guilt}' wretch who wishes not to live ; 

Who cannot, dares not, ask for a reprieve ; 

So black a crime just Heaven will not forgive ! 

Justice arrests thy coming mercy. Lord ; 

Strike then, O strike, unsheath th^' dreadful sword : 

Accursed forever be the hated da}', 

That led my soul from innocence astray ; 

O may the stars, on that detested hour. 



SARAH PORTEE. 15 



Shed all their influence with malignant power, 
Darkness and sorrows jointly hold their reign, 
When time, revolving, brings it round again. 
Unhapp}' man ! — ah ! whither shall I turn ? 
Like Cain, accurst, must I forever mourn? 
On beds of silk in vain I seek repose, 
Uriah's shade forbids my eyes to close ; 
No bars exclude him — to no place confined. 
Eager he still pursues m}' flying mind : 
Not all the crowd that bow at mj approach. 
Nor guards that thicken round the gilded couch, 
Can with their arms, or martial air, atiVight, 
Or drive the phantom from my wearied sight. 

happ3' da}' ! when, blest with Eglah's charms, 

1 woo'd no other beaut}' to m}' arms ; 

No court's licentious joys did then molest 

My peaceful mind, nor haunt my tranquil breast. 

A glitt'ring crown ! thou poor, fantastic thing ! 

What solid satisfaction canst thou bring? 

Once, far removed from all the toils of state, 

In groves I slept — no guards around me wait : 

Oh ! how delicious was the calm retreat ! 

Sweet groves ! with birds and various flowers stored : 

Where nature furnished out my frugal board ; 

The pure, unstained spring, m}- thirst allayed ; 

No poisoned draught, in golden cups conveyed, 

Was there to dread. Return, ye happ}- hours, 

Ye verdant shades, kind nature's pleasing bowers, 

Inglorious solitude, again return, 

And heal the breast with pain and anguish torn. 

God ! let th}' mere}', like the solar ray, 

Break forth and drive these dismal clouds awa}- ; 

Oh ! send its kind enlivening warmth on one 

Who sinks, who dies, beneath th}- dreadful frown : 

Thus fares the wretch at sea, by tempests tost, 

Sands, hurricanes, and rocks, proclaim him lost ; 

With eager eyes he views the peaceful shore. 

And longs to rest where billows cease to roar : 

Of wanton winds and waves I've been the sport, 

Oh ! when shall I attain the wished-for port? 

Or might I bear the punishment alone. 

Nor hear the lovel}' infant's piteous moan ; 

My sins upon the dying child impressed. 

The dreadful thought forbids ni}- soul to rest. 

In mercy. Lord, th}- humble suppliant hear. 

Oh ! give the darling to my ardent prayer ! 



16 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Cleanse me from sin — oh ! graciousl}' forgive ; 
Blest with thy love, oh ! let thy servant live : 
Th}'^ smiles withdrawn, what is the world to me ? 
My hopes, my joys, are placed alone on thee : 
Oh ! let th}' love, to this desponding heart, 
One ray, at least, of heavenly love impart." 



©abitr lEberett. 

This poet was born in Princeton, Mass., in 1769. He graduated at Dartmouth 
College in ITO."), on which occasion he delivered a valedictory v>oem. While a 
teacher in New Ipswich he wrote the school-boy recitation which has been so well 
known. He became a lawyer and practised his profession several years in Am- 
herst. In 1804 he delivered a masonic oration in Washington, this state. He died 
In 1813. 



AN ODE. 
Why veiled, O Sun ! Thy day absorbed 

Where fled thy light ? In gloom of night. 

Has thy Creator quenched thy fires. 
Or dost thou mourn while he expires ? 

Ah, heathen sage ! Nor moon, nor stars, 

Thy worshipped sun, That round him run ; 

Nor science, lucid as their spheres, 
Can solve thy doubts, or calm thy fears. 

On Calvary Why nature breaks 

Behold the cause. Her stated laws, 

And groans unconscious of the plan, 
While God reveals his love to man. 

The veil is rent ; The rocks are cleft ; 

Earth's caverns quake ; The dead awake ; 

As Jesus, His incarnate Son, 
In dying anguish, cries " 'Tis done. " 

" 'Tis done, " O man ! The way to life 

The heavens resound : For thee is found ; 

And ye, like him, who dies, to save, 
Shall conquer death and burst the grave. 



EXTRACT 

From a valedictory poem at Dartmouth College. 

The Muse prophetic views the coming day. 
When federal laws bej^ond the line shall 'sway ; 
Where Spanish indolence inactive lies, 
And every art and every virtue dies ; 



DAVID EVERETT. n 



"Where pride and avarice their empire hold, 
Ignobly great, and poor amid their gold, — 
Columbia's genius shall the mind inspire, 
And fill each breast with patriotic fire. 
Nor east nor western oceans shall confine 
The generous flame that dignifies the mind ; 
O'er all the earth shall Freedom's banner wave, 
The tyrant blast and liberate the slave : 
Plenty and peace shall spread from pole to pole, 
Till earth's grand family possess one soul. 



LINES 

Spoken at a school exhibition by a boy seven years old. 

You'd scarce expect one of my age 

To speak in public on the stage ; 

And if I chance to fall below 

Demosthenes or Cicero, 

Don't view me with a critic's eye, 

But pass my imperfections b3\ 

Large streams from little fountains flow ; 

Tall oaks from little acoi'ns grow ; 

And though I now am small and 3-oung, 

Of judgment weak and feeble tongue, 

Yet all great learn^'d men, like me, 

Once learned to read their A, B, C. 

But wh}' may not Columbia's soil 

Bear men as great as Britain's isle? 

Exceed what Greece and Rome have done? 

Or any land beneath the sun? 

Mayn't Massachusetts boast as great 

As any other sister State ? 

Or Where's the town, go far and near, 

That does not find a rival here ? 

Or Where's the boy but three feet high 

"Who's made improvement more than I? 

These thoughts inspire my youthful mind 

To be the greatest of mankind : 

Great, not like Ctesar, stained with blood. 

But only great as I am good. 



This poet was born in Walpole, April 22, 1771. He graduated at Dartmouth Col- 
lege in 179<i, after wliicli he stii(lie<l law. lu 1801 he visited England, and returned 
in 1804. He went to Brattleboro', Vt., in 1S12, where h« edited the Reporter 



1 8 POETS OF NE W HAMPSHIRE. 



Afterwards he went to Bellows Falls, Vt., and edited the Intelligencer. He re- 
mained there till 1822, publishing in the meantime a volume of poetry. He then 
removed to Boston, to commence the publication of the New England Farmer, 
which attained a high rank in his hands. He died in that city, Nov. II, 1837. 



FLATTERY. 

Miss Ann, you are, it seems to me, 

An essence all etherial ; 
The brightest being that can be. 

Entirely immaterial. 

A pencil tipped with solar rays 

Your charms conld scarcely blazon ; 

Contrasted with your beauty's blaze 
Bright Sol's a pewter basin. 

Transcendent little sprig of light ! 

If rhymes are always true. 
An angel is an ugly sprite 

Compared to sylph like you. 

You frowning tell me : "This indeed 

Is flattery past all bearing ; 
I ne'er before did hear nor read 

Of any quite so glaring." 

Yes, this is flattery, sure enough, 

And its exaggeration 
May teach j'ou how to hold such stuff" 

In utter detestation. 

Should beaux your ladyship accost 
With something like this flummery. 

Tell them their labor will be lost. 
For this transcends their mummery. 

The man whose favor's worth a thought. 

To flattery can't descend ; 
The servile sycophant is not 

Your lover nor your friend. 



THE COURSE OF CULTURE. 

Survey the world, through everj-^ zone, 

From Lima to Japan, 
In lineaments of light 'tis shown 

That culture makes the man. 



THOMAS OREEN FE8SENDEN. 19 

By manual culture one attains 

What industry may claim, 
Another's mental toil and pains 

Attenuate his frame. 

Some plough and plant the teeming soil, 

Some cultivate the arts ; 
And some devote a life of toil 

To tilling heads and hearts. 
Some train the adolescent mind, 

While buds of promise blow, 
And see each nascent twig inclined 

The way the tree should grow. 

The first man, and the first of men 

"Were tillers of the soil. 
And that was mercy's mandate then, 

Which destined men to moil. 
Indulgence preludes fell attacks 

Of merciless disease. 
And sloth extends on fiery racks 

Her listless devotees. 

Hail, horticulture ! heaven-ordained. 

Of ever}^ art the source, 
Which man has polished, life sustained, 

Since Time commenced his course. 
Where waves thy wonder-working wand, 

What splendid scenes disclose ! 
The blasted heath, the arid strand, 

Out-bloom the gorgeous rose. 

Even in the seraph-sex is thy 

Munificence described ; 
And Milton says in ladj-'s e3'e 

Is heaven identified. 
A seedling sprung from Adam's side, 

A most celestial shoot ! 
Became of Paradise the pride, 

And bore a world of fruit. 

The lily, rose, carnation, blent 

By Flora's magic power, 
And tulip, feebly represent 

So elegant a flower : 
Then surely, bachelors, ye, ought 

In season to transfer 
Some sprig of this sweet "touch-me-not," 

To grace your own parterre. 



20 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

And every gardener should be proud, 

With tenderness and skill, 
If haply he may be allowed 

This precious plant to till. 
All that man has, had, hopes, can have. 

Past, promised, or possessed. 
Are fruits which culture gives or gave 

At industry's behest. 



THE INDEPENDENT FARMER. 

It ma}^ very truly be said 

That his is a noble v,ocation, 
"Whose industry leads him to spread 

About him a little creation. 

He lives independent of all, 

E:scept the Omnipotent donor ; 
Has always enough at his call, — 

And more is a plague to its owner. 

He works with his hands, it is true, 

But happiness dwells with employment, 

And he who has nothing to do 

Has nothing by way of enjo3'ment. 

His labors are mere exercise. 

Which saves him from pains and ph3'sicians 
Then, farmers, you truly may prize 

Your own as the best of conditions. 

From competence, shared with content, 

Since all true felicity springs. 
The life of a farmer is blent 

With more real bliss than a king's. 



THE FARMER. 

Let moneyed blockheads roll in wealth, 
Let proud fools strut in state, 

My lands, my homestead and my health 
Place me above the great. 

I never fawn nor fib nor feign, 
To please old Mammon's fry ; 

But independence still maintain 
On all beneath the sky. 



no SEA BALLOU. 21 



Thus Cincinnntus, at his plough, 

"With more true glory shone 
Than Ca?sar, with his laurell'd brow, 

His palace and his throne. 

Tumult, perplexity- and care 

Are bold Ambition's lot ; 
But those intruders never dare 

Disturb my peaceful cot. 

Blest with bare competence, I find 

"What mouarchs never can, 
Health and tranquillity of mind. 

Heaven's choicest gifts to man. 

The toil with which I till the ground 

For exercise is meet, 
Is mei'e amusement which is crowned 

With slumber sound and sweet. 

But those who toil in Pleasure's rounds, 
Sweet slumber soon destro}' ; 

Soon find on Dissipation's grounds 
A grave for ever}' joy. 



I^osca Ijallou. 

Hosea Ballou, the son of Rev. Malurin Ballon, a Baptist clergyman, was born in 
Kichmonci, April 30, 1771. He was educated at Chesterticld Academy, and, adopting 
the views of the Universalists, began to preach at twenty years of age. In 1796 he 
accepted a call to Barnard, Vt. Six years afterward he removed to Portsmouth, and 
remained there six years, and then "went to Salem, >Iass. In 1817 he became pas- 
tor of the Second Uhiversalist Society in Boston. He resided there till his death, 
which occuiTed on the 7tli of June, 1852. He published a volume of ■^rses, mostly 
hj-rans. 



BLESSINGS OF CHRIST'S UNIVERSAL REIGN. 

AVhen God descends, with men to dwell, 

And all creation makes anew, 
"What tongue can half the wonders tell ? 

"What eye the dazzling glories view ? 

Zion, the desolate, again 

Shall see her lands with roses bloom ; 
And Carmel's mount, and Sharon's plain, 

Shall yield their spices and perfume. 

Celestial streams shall gentl}- flow ; 

The wilderness shall joyful be ; 
Lilies on parch6d ground shall grow ; 

And gladness spring on every tree ; 



22 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

The weak be strong, the fearful bold, 

The deaf shall hear, tlie dumb shall sing, 

The lame shall walk, the blind behold ; 
And joy through all the earth shall ring. 

Monarchs and slaves shall meet in love ; 

Old pride shall die, and meekness reign, — 
"When God descends from worlds above, 

To dwell with men on earth again. 



GOD IS LOVE. 
When my astonished eyes behold, 

My Maker's works below, above, 
And read his name in lines of gold, 

I surely know that "God is love." 

When I observe his written word, 
And when his gift of grace I prove, 

With jo3-ful heart I praise the Lord, 
For, saith the scriptures, "God is love. 

What gentle streams of pleasure roll ! 

What quickening from m3'stic dove ! 
Now peace divine fills all my soul. 

And I can shout that "God is love." 

Now heavenly courage I'll put on, 
For far away my fears it drove ; 

I'll bow before the living Son, 

And loud proclaim my "God is love." 



^Jilip (irarrigan. 

Philip Carrlgan was a son of Dr. Philip Carrigan. He was born in Concorrl, Fch- 
ruary 29, probably in 1772, and was graduateil at Dartmouth College in 17!)4. lie 
studied law and settleil in his native town. In 1805, an<l the three years following, 
he was Secretary of State. He prepared a valuable map of the State, which was 
published in 181(5. In 1806 he delivered a poem before the Phi Beta Kappa Society 
at Dartmouth College. He died in Concord, March 15, 1842. 



LAFAYETTE'S RETURN. 

North and South and East and West, 
A cordial welcome have addressed 
Loud and warm, the Nation's Guest, 

Dear Son of Libert}' ; 
Whom tyrants cursed when Heaven approved, 
And millions long have mourned and loved, 
He comes, by fond entreaties moved. 

The Granite State to see. 



PHILIP CARRIGAN. 23 



Our mountains tower with matchless pride, 
And mighty torrents from them glide, 
And wintry tempests, far and wide, 

Ridge deep our drifts of snow ; 
Yet does our hardening climate form 
Patriots with hearts as bold and warm, 
At social feast, or battle storm, 

As e'er met friend or foe. 

Bliss domestic, rank, wealth, ease. 
Our guest resigned for stormy seas. 
And for war's more stormy breeze. 

To make our country free ; 
And potent Britain saw, disma3-ed, 
The lightning of his virgin blade 
To Freedom flash triumphant aid. 

But death to Tyranny. 

Now, in his life's less perilous wane. 
He has re-crossed the Atlantic main, 
Preserved by Heaven, to greet again 

The land he bled to save ; 
And those who with him, hand in hand. 
Fought 'neath his mighty sire's command, — 
Alas ! how thinned that gallant band. 

Band of the free and brave ! 

Angels, 'tis said, at times have stood 

Unseen among the great and good, 

For country's rights who shed their blood. 

Nor has their influence ceased. 
For party feuds far off are driven, 
Foes reconciled and wrongs forgiven. 
And this green spot of earth made Heaven, 

For these old heroes' feast. 

They've met in war to toil and bleed. 
They've met in peace, their country freed ; 
And unborn millions will succeed 

To their dower, the Rights of Man; 
The patriot of both hemispheres. 
Though first on earth, deems all his peers. 
Who joined his war-cry with their cheers. 

Where raged the battle's van. 

Such were the men our land did save, 
Nor e'er can reach oblivion's wave, 
(Though booming o'er the statesman's grave,) 
Our deep redeeraless debt. 



24 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

No ! Merrimack may cease to flow, 
And our White Mountains sink below ; 
But naught can cancel what we owe 
To them and Lafa^-ette. 



(MiUiam iliflcrctant iiic!)artrson. 

WUllam M. Richardson, LL. D., was born in Pelham, January 4, 17V4. He 
graduated at Harvard College in 1797; was a member of Conjfress, 1S11-'14; Chief 
Justice Supreme Court of this State, 181C-'38. He died in Chester, March, 1838. 



THE RIVER MERRIMACK. 

Sweet Merrimack ! thy gentle stream 

Is fit for better poet's theme, 

For rich thy waves and gentle too, 

As Rome's proud Tiber ever knew ; 

And thy fair current's placid swell 

Would flow in classic song as well. 

Yet on th}' banks, so green, so sweet, 

Where wood-nymphs dance and naiads meet, 

E'en since creation's earliest dawn, 

No son of song was ever born ; 

No muse's fairy feet e'er trod 

Th}' modest margin's verdant sod ; 

And 'mid Time's silent, feathery flight, 

Like some coy maiden, pure as light, 

Sequestered in some blest retreat, 

Far from the city and the great, 

Thy virgin waves the vales among 

Have flowed neglected and unsung. 

Yet, as the sailor, raptured, hails 

His native shores, his native vales, 

Returning home from many a day 

Of tedious absence, far away 

From her whose charms alone control 

The warm affections of his soul ; 

Thus, from life's stormy, troubled sea, 

My heart returns to visit thee. 

Sweet Nymph, whose fairy footsteps press, 
And viewless fingers gaily dress, 
By moonlight or b}^ Hesper's beam. 
The verdant banks of this sweet stream : 
Who oft by twilight's doubtful ra}^ 
With wood-nymphs and with naiad ga}-, 
Lead'st up the dance in merry mood. 



WILLIAM MERCHANT RICEABDSON. 25 

To the soft murmurs of the flood ; 

All hail once more ! 'tis main* a jear 

Since last I came to meet thee here, 

And much it glads my heart once more 

To meet thee on this pleasant shore ; 

For here in youth, when hope was high, 

M}' breast a stranger to a sigh. 

And my blood danced through CA'er}' vein. 

Amid the joll>', sportive train 

Of youths and maids, who gathering round, 

Danced to the flute's entrancing sound, 

I felt thy powerful influence. 

The bliss our bosoms felt, dispense ; 

Delight on all our bosoms pour. 

And make our hearts with jo}' brim o'er. 

Thy fingers on each virgin's check 

Impressed the witching "dimple sleek," 

Bade magic smiles and blushes meet 

In mixture ravishingl}' sweet. 

And many a face a charm possess, 

Which then I felt---but can't express. 

Blest daA's, alas ! forever past, 

Sunk in the ocean dim and vast 

Of years, whose dread profundity 

Is pierced b}' none but Fancy's eye, 

Your joys like gems of pearly light, 

There hallowed shine in Fancy's sight. 

What though beside the gentle flood. 

Bedewed with tears and wet with blood, 

Profusely shed by iron Mars 

In wild Ambition's cruel wars, 

No evergreen of glor}' waves 

Among the fallen warriors' graves? 

What though the battle's bloody rage. 

Where mad contending chiefs engage. 

The nymphs that rule these banks so green 

And naiads soft have never seen? 

AVhat though ne'er tinged this crystal wave 

The rich blood of the fallen brave? 

No deathless deed by hero done, 

No battle lost, no victory won ; 

Here ever walked Avith praise or blame, 

The loud uplifted trump of fame. 

Here beauteous Spring profuseh' showers 

A wilderness of sweets and flowers. 



26 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

The stately oak of royal line, 

The spreading elm and towering pine, 

Here cast a purer, happier shade 

Than blood-stained laurels ever made. 

No wailing ghosts of warriors slain, 

Along these peaceful shores complain ; 

No maniac virgin crazed with care, 

The mournful victim of despair ; 

While pangs unutterable swell 

Her heart, to view the spot where fell 

The youth who all her soul possessed, 

She tears her hair or beats her breast. 

Ne'er victor lords, nor conquered slaves. 

Disgraced these banks, disgraced these waves ; 

But freedom, peace and plenty here, 

Perpetual bless the passing year. 



Daniel Webster was born in Salisbury, January 18, 1782. He graduated at Dart- 
mouth College in 1801. He became a lawyer; was a member of Congress, 1813-17, 
18-23-27; U. S. Senator, 1827-39; 1845-50; Secretary of State U. S., 1841-42; 18.50-52. He 
died in Marshfleld, Mass., October 24, 1852. While at college he published two blank 
verse poems of considerable length. Two extracts are here given from the one on 
Human Redemption. In 1825 he lost a son named Charles. On that occasion he 
composed a short poem which he enclosed in a letter to his wife. 



LINES TO A DEPARTED SON. 

My son, thou wast my heart's delight, 
Thy morn of life was ga^- and cheery ; 

That morn has rushed to sudden night. 
Thy father's house is sad and dreary. 

I held thee on my knee, my son. 

And kissed thee laughing, kissed thee weeping ; 
But ah ! thy little day is done, 

Thou'rt with my angel sister sleeping. 

The staff on which my 3'ears should lean 
Is broken e'er those years come o'er me ; 

My funeral rites thou shouldst have seen. 
But thou art in the tomb before me. 

Thou rear'st to me no filial stone. 

No parent's grave with tears beholdest ; 

Thou art my ancester, my son ! 

And stand'st in heaven's account the oldest. 

On earth my lot was soonest cast, • 
Thy generation after mine ; 



DANIEL WEBSTER. 



Thou hast th}' predecessor past, 
EarUer eternity is thine. 

I should have set before thine ej'es 

The road to heaven, and showed it clear; 

But thou untaught springost to the skies. 
And leavest th}- teacher lingering here. 

Sweet seraph, I would learn of thee, 
And hasten to partake thy bliss ; 

And ! to thy world welcome me, 
As first I welcomed thee to this. 

Dear angel, thou art safe in heaven ; 

No prayers for thee need more be made ; 
Oh ! let thy pra^'ers for those be given 

AVho oft have blest th}- infant head. 

My Father ! I beheld thee born, 

And led th}' tottering steps with care ; 

Before me risen to heaven's bright morn. 
My son, m}' father, guide me there. 



FROM "HUMAN REDEMPTION." 

When the grand period in the eternal mind. 

Long predetermined, had arrived, behold 

The universe, this most stupendous mass 

Of things, to instant being rose. This globe, 

For light and heat dependent on the sun. 

By power supreme was then ordained to roll 

And on its surface bear immortal man. 

Complete in bliss, the image of his God. 

His soul, to gentle harmonies attuned, 

Th' ungoverned rage of boisterous passion knew not. 

Malice, revenge and hate were then unknown ; 

Love held his empire in the human heart — 

The voice of love alone escaped the lip. 

And gladdening nature echoed back the strain. 

Oh hap[)3' state ! too happy to remain : 

Temptation comes, and man a victim falls ! 

Farewell to peace, farewell to hiunan bliss. 

Farewell, ye kindred virtues, all farewell ! 

Ye flee the world, and seek sublimer realms. 

Passions impetuous now possess the heart, 

And hurry every gentler feeling thence. 



28 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Is it now asked why man for slaughter pants, 
Raves with revenge, and with detraction burns? 
Go ask of iEtna why her thunders roar. 
Why her volcanoes smoke, and why she pours 
In torrents down her side the igneous mass 
That hurries men and cities to the tomb ! 
These but the effects of bursting fires within, 
Convulsions that are hidden from our sight 
And bellow under ground. Just so in man, 
The love of conquest and the lust of power 
Are but the effects of passion unsubdued. 
To avert the effects, then, deeply strike the cause, 
O'ercome the rage of passion, and obtain 
The empire over self. This once achieved. 
Impress fair virtue's precepts on the heart. 
Teach t' adore his God, and love his brother : 
War then no more shall raise the rude alarm, 
"Widows and orphans then shall sigh no more, 
Peace shall return, and man again be blest. 



THE MEMOEY OF THE HEART. 

If stores of dry and learned lore we gain 

We keep them in the memory of the brain ; ' 

Names, things, and facts — whate'er we knowledge call, 

There is the common ledger for them all ; 

And images on this cold surface traced 

Make slight impressions, and are soon effaced. 

But we've a page more glowing and more bright 
On which our friendship and our love to write ; 
That these may never from the soul depart, 
We trust them to the memory of the heart. 
There is no dimming — no elfacement here ; 
Each new pulsation keeps the record clear ; 
AVarm, golden letters all the tablet fill. 
Nor lose their lustre till the heart stands still. 
London, November 19, 1839. 



WINTER. 

Happy are they who far removed from war. 
And all its train of woes, in tranquil peace 
And joyful plent}', pass the winter's e\e. 
Such bliss is thine, Columbia ! Bless th}' God ! 
The toil and labor of the year now o'er, 



WILLIAM WALLACE. 29 

"While Sol scarce darts a glimmering, trembling beam, 
AVhile Boreas' blast blows bleak along the plain ; 
Around the social Are, content and free, 
Th}' sons shall taste the sweets Pomona gives. 
Or reap the blessings of domestic ease 
Or else, in transport, tread the mountain snows 
And leap the craggy clitf, robust and strong — 
Till from the lucid chambers of the South 
The joj'ous Spring looks forth and hails the world. 
1799. 



Andrew Wallace was a native of Milford. At the age of 21 he decided upon the 
profession of law, entered Dartmouth Colleg-e, and after five years' study, was ad- 
mitted to tlie Hillsborough County liai-, praetisiuff at Hancock. Subsequently he 
removed to Amherst, and for many years served as Clerk of the Hillsborouph 
County Courts. He represented the town in the Legislature, and was its delegate 
in the State Convention of 1850, for the revision of the Constitutiou. He died in 
185G, at the age of 71 years, highly esteemed by all. 



A PRAYER IN SICKNESS. 

Parent of life, great source of good, 
To thee a needy suppliant would, 
"With humble boldness, as he should, 

Address this short petition : 
Forgive m}' sins, which numerous are, 
"Whose weight is more than I can bear, 
INIy life in mercy to me spare, 
Be thou m}- great physician. 

My sins are of a scarlet d^-e, 

To thee for vengeance loud thej' cry, 

AVhile on this couch of pain I lie, 

Bereft of consolation ; 
Save that thv grace is rich and free, 
Just suiting my necessity, 
I crj- for mercy. Lord to thee, 

And pray for renovation. 

Rcstoi'e my health, renew my heart, 
Bid every sinful thought depart, 
Baflle the tempter's wicked art. 

And grant me thj- salvation. 
So shall the remnant of my da^'S 
Be spent in "Wisdom's pleasant ways, 
And evermore to sing tliy praise 

Shall be mv recreation. 



30 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

But if my life is soon to end, 

O God of mere}', condescend 

To be ni}' Father, Saviour, Friend, 

And grant me thy ricli favor. 
And when m}- soul shall take its flight. 
Ma}' chosen bands of angels bright 
Conve}' it to the realms of light, 

To dwell with thee forever. 



HYMN OF THANKSGIVING FOR RECOVERY FROM 
SICKNESS. 

Giver of every perfect gift ! 
Restored to health, again I lift ' 

To thee my waiting e3'es ; 
Attempts at praise, devoid of art, 
The incense of a grateful heart 

Thou never wilt despise. 

To me thou hast compassion shown, 
Thy healing mercy I have known, 

AVhen none but thee could save ; 
Thou heard'st me when in great distress, 
The means of safety thou didst bless, 

And saved me from the grave. 

In sickness thou didst make my bed ; 
At thy rebuke my fever fled ; 

M}' pains thou didst remove. 
O may thy goodness shown to me, 
Excite my thankfulness to thee, 

And kindle into love. 

May gratitude and holy joy 
The remnant of my life employ ; 

And may renewing grace 
Prepare me for that peaceful rest. 
Which is reserved for the blest 

Who see thee face to face. 

When nought on earth can me avail, 
And flesh and heart entirely fail, 

O take me safely o'er ; 
And when the last great trump shall sound ^ 
May I in safety then be found 

On Canaan's happy shore. 



NATHANIEL EAZELTINE CARTER. 31 

Kati)anicl l^a^eltme iHTartet. 

Nathaniel H. Carter, who was born at the "Iron Works," Concord, Sept. 17, 17S7, 
was one of the earliest teachers of the poet Longfellow. Mr. Carter frrailuated at 
Dartmouth in ISll, and was subsequently widely known as an instructur and lite- 
rarv gentleman. Of his class of fifty-five at Hanover one only was livini,'- at the 
publication of the 1880 Quinquennial— James S. Good%vin, M. D., of I'orlland, Me. 
Mr. Carter was Professor of Languages at Dartmouth from 1817 to 1M'.»; traxellL'cl 
iu Kurope and published two volumes of foreign letters, and was also the autlior 
of '-Pains of Imagination," and other iiroductions in verse. He died at Marseilles, 
France, Jan. 2, 1830. Longfellow attended Mr. Carter's private school iu Portland, 
and also the academy in that place taught by the same. 



HYMN FOR CHRISTMAS. 

In h3'mns of praise, eternal God ! 

When th}' creating hand 
Stretched the bhie arch of heaven abroad, 

And meted sea and land, 
The morning stars together sung, 
And shouts of joy from angels rung. 

Than Earth's prime hour, more joyous far 

"Was the eventful morn, 
When the bright beam of Bethlehem's star 

Announced a Saviour born ! 
TJien sweeter strains from heaven began, 
"Glory to God — good will to man." 

Babe of the manger ! can it be ? 

Art tliou the Son of God ? 
Shall subject nations bow the knee, 

And kings obe}' thy nod ? 
Shall thrones and monarchs prostrate fall 
Before the tenant of a stall ? 

'Tis He ! the hj'mning seraphs cry, 
While hovering, drawn to earth ; 

'Tis He ! the shepherds' songs reply. 
Hail ! hail Immanuel's birth ! 

The rod of peace those hands shall bear, 

That brow a crown of glory wear. 

'Tis He ! the Eastern sages sing, 
And spread their golden hoard ; 

'Tis He ! the hills of Sion ring 
Hosanna to the Lord ! 

The Prince of long prophetic years 

To-da}- iu Bethlehem appears ! 



32 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

He comes ! the Conquerer's march begins ; 

No blood his banner stains ; 
He comes to save the world from sins, 

And break the captive's chains ! 
The poor, the sick and blind shall bless 
The Prince of Peace and Righteousness. 

Though now in swaddling-clothes he lies, 
All hearts his power shall own, 

When he, with legions from the skies, 
The clouds of heaven his throne, 

Shall come to judge the quick and dead, 

And strike a trembling world with dread. 



TO MY NATIVE STREAM. 

Hail ! hail again, my native stream. 
Scene of m}' boyhood's earliest dream ! 
With solitary' step once more 
I tread thy wild and sylvan shore, 
And pause at every turn, to gaze 
Upon thy dark meandering maze. 
What though obscure thy wood}' source. 
What though unsung th}' humble course ; 
What if no lofty, classic name 
Give to thy peaceful waters fame, 
Still can thy rural haunts impart 
A solace to this saddened heart. 

Since last with thee I parted, time 

Hath borne me on through many a clime. 

Far from my native roof that stood 

Secluded by thy murmuring flood ; 

And I in distant lands have roamed. 

Where rolled new streams, new oceans foamed ; 

Along the Shannon, Doon and Tay 

I've sauntered man}- a happy daj'. 

And sought beside the Cam and Thames 

Memorials of immortal names ; 

Or mingled in the polished train 

Of fashion, on the banks of Seine. 

And I have seen the azure Rhone 

Rush headlong from his Alpine throne ; 

Green Mincius and silver Po 

Through vine-clad vales meandering flow ; 

Sweet Arno, wreathed in summer flowers, 



NATHANIEL HAZELTINE CARTER, 33 

Linger amidst Etrurian bowers ; 
And the old Tiber's yellow tide 
Roll to the sea in sullen pride. 

In climes beneath the burning zone, 

Mid tangled forests, deep and lone, 

Where fervid skies forever glow 

And the soft trade-winds whispering blow, 

My roving footsteps too have pressed 

The loveliest island of the west. 

There Yumuri winds, deep and calm, 

Through groves of citron and of palm ; 

There on the sluggish waves of Juan, 

My little boat hath borne me on ; 

Or up Canimar's silent floods, 

Strown with the blossoms of its woods. 

Yet not the less my native stream, 
Art thou to me a grateful theme. 
Than when, in heedless boyhood's prime, 
I wove for thee the rustic rh^-me. 
Ere other realms, beyond the sea. 
Had spread their fairest charms for me, 
E'en now, alone I sit me down, 
Amidst thy woods, with autumn brown, 
And on the rustling leaves recline, 
Beneath a copse of whispering pine. 
To watch thy amber current run, 
Bright with November's parting sun. 
Around with eager eye I trace 
The charms of each remembered place — 
Some fountain gushing from the bank, 
At which, in 3-outh, I knelt and drank — 
Yon oak, its hoary arms that rears, 
Scene of my sports in bo3'ish 3'ears. 
Farewell ! farewell ! though I no more 
May ramble on th}' rural shore, 
Still shall thy quiet wave glide on. 
When he who watched its flow is gone, 
And his sole epitaph shall be 
Inscribed upon some aged tree. 



THE CLOSING SCENE— A BURIAL AT SEA. 

From his room to the deck they brought him, drest 
In his funeral robes by his own request — 



34 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

With'liis boots and stock and garments on, 
And naught but the breathing spirit gone ; 
For he wished that a child might come and lay 
An unstartled hand upon his clay. 
Then they wrapped his corse in a tarr}' sheet, 
To the dead, as Araby's spices sweet, 
And prepared him to seek the depths below, 
Where waves never beat, nor tempests blow. 
No steeds with their nodding plumes were here, 
No sable hearse, and no coffined bier, 
To bear with pomp and parade away 
The dead, to sleep with his kindred clay. 
But the little group, a silent few, 
His companions, mixed with the hardy crew. 
Stood thoughtful around, till a prayer was said 
O'er the corse of the deaf, unconscious dead. 
Then they bore his remains to the vessel's side. 
And committed them safe to the dark blue tide. 
One sullen plunge, and the scene is o'er — 
The sea rolled on as it rolled before. 

In that classical sea, * whose azure vies 

With the green of its shores, and the blue of its skies, 

In some pearly cave, in some coral cell. 

Oh ! the dead shall sleep, as sweetl}^, as well, 

As if shrined in the pomp of Parian tombs, 

Where the East and the South breathe their rich perfumes ; 

Nor forgotten shall be the humble one, 

Though he sleep in the watery waste alone, 

When the trump of the angel sounds with dread. 

And the sea, like the land, gives up the dead. 



(Sijarlesi i3utrougi)!8. 

Thi8 distinguished clergyman was born in Boston, Mass., Dec. 27, 1787, and was 
a graduate of Harvard College in 1S06. In l^^l'2 he became rector of St. John's 
church in Portsmouth, which office he tilled with abihty until 1857. In 18.')1 he pub- 
lished a volume entitled " The Poetry of Religion and other Poems." He died in 
18(>8 at the age of eiglity years. 



MOUNT WASHINGTON. 

Written on the summit of Mount Washington, Wednesday noon, July 0, 1846. 

Illustrious Mountain ! thou dost stand alone, 
The loftiest sentinel that guards our land ; 
The glorious image of the Eternal One ; 
The work sublime of his Almighty hand. 

* The Mediterranean, on which sea the author was then sailing. 



CHARLES BURROVQHS. 3") 

On ever}' side what boundless prospects rise ! 
What oceans vast of mountain scenery ! 
What dread magnificence of earth and skies ! 
What regions of unrolled imniensit}- ! 

Now, raised above earth's cares and toil and din, 

I sit serene, to hoi}- musings given ; 

To soar in bliss above this world of sin, 

And hold communion with the hosts of heaven. 

Right well th}' granite pile baptized has been, 
In name of one whose virtues none assail ; 
Who lowered in glor^- o'er his fellow-men, 
Like thy proud summit o'er the humble vale. 

Thy rocks, unhurt, have felt the tempest's power. 
And lightnings harmless have played round thy form ; 
So, too, our Washington in war's fierce hour 
Did breast each shock, and triumph o'er each storm. 

Our nation's boast ! Mount of eternal stone ! 
In freedom, truth, and virtue may we stand, 
Exalted like thyself and Washington, 
The pride and honor of our blessed land ! 



A MORNING PRAYER. 

As from my couch I now arise. 
And grateful view the earth and skies, 
Grant me, in all things. Lord, I pray, 
Thy glory to consult this day. 

At meals, at prayer, where'er I wend, 
What hours in cares or joys I spend, 
Be it my highest joy and fame 
To glorify th}' blessed name. 

Should dangerous snares ray soul assault, 
And tempt me to a sin or fault. 
Oh, keep me pure in act and word, 
Ever to honor thee my Lord. 

Should any sufferer I may see 
Need offices of love from me, 
Oh, may I gladly show such love, 
To glorif)' my God above. 



36 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Should sickness, sorrows, trials, woes, 
Befall me, ere this day shall close, 
With patience may I bear each ill, 
And bow submissive to thy will ! 

Dear Lord, may all my labors be 
Begun, continued, closed in thee, 
And all bring glory to thy name. 
And give me endless life and fame ! 

Then, when her pall Night o'er me throws. 
And on my couch I seek repose, 
I'll bless thee that I still do live 
New glories to thy name to give. 



William Pliimer, the oldest child of W^illiam and Sally Plumer, was born in 
Bppints February 9, 1789. At the age of thirteen he entei-eil Phillips Exeter Acad- 
emy, tH' pre iia re for College, and in 1805 entered at Harvard, graduating in 1809. 
lie studied law but never practised the profession to any great extent. lu 1818 he 



in 181-2, and again in 1816 to 1819. A life of Gov. Plumer was written by liis son. 
It was published in 18.50. He wrote poetry at an early age. In after life he wrote 
and published for private distribution four volumes: "Youth," "Manhood," 
"War Songs and Ballsds from the Old Testament," and "Ruth, a pastoral." Tlie 
two first mentioned volumes are composed chiefly of Sonnets, and are admirable 
specimens of euphonious versification, chaste imagery and affluent thought. Mr. 
I'liimer died September 18, 1854. 



THE OCEAN. 

Bred inland, I had reached my fifteenth year. 
Ere yet the waves of ocean on mj- sight 
Rolled in their glory. My intense delight. 

When first I saw those living waves uprear 

Their crested heads, lives in my memory clear, 
As seen but yesterday. Along the shore. 

The storm had wrecked its fury ; and the day, 
New risen, looked wildly on the angry roar 

Of ocean, thundering on that rock-girt bay. 
My spirit was not by the scene subdued. 

But kindled rather ; as dilating wide 

It rose, o'er ocean's boundless amplitude. 

In might of mind, with power, as if to ride, 

Triumphant, master-like, above the tide. 

Again I sought that headland's rocky crest 
O'erlooking ocean, — silent and alone. 
Where human habitation there was none, 



WILLTAM PLUMER. 37 

Nor work of man. The sun was In the west ; 
The waves lay sUimbering on the j)arent breast ; 

The winds, that late had swept the deep, were flown, 
Each to his cave : all nature seemed at rest. 

Thoughtful I watched the steady e])b and flow, 
That, far as eye could reach, or thought extend, 

Rolled on, in calmness, and in power below, 
Power without effort, motion' Avithout end ; 

Which, as I gazed, seemed, God-like, still to grow 
On my awed thoughts, — till ocean's mildest mood. 
Serene in grandeur, all my soul subdued. 

THE WHITE HILLS. 

Thy varied scenes blend grace, my native land ! 

With grandeur ; here the tranquil lake. 

And there the roaring torrent, — streams that break. 
Impetuous rushing, from thy mountain strand. 
With headlong force, that scoops the yielding sand, 

And wears down granite. Lo ! where towering liigii. 
His shoulders mantled with yon swelling cloud. 
Whence lightings flash, and thunders roar aloud. 

Mount Washington ascends his native sky ! 
Armed with the avalanche, he sweeps afar 

Man and his works, — his caverns stored with snow, 
Ooeval with the rock. Like some lone star. 

Above the storm, he looks on earth below. 
Serene in silence, from his throne on high. 

Serene, sublime, in silence, from thy throne, 

Thou look'st, dread monarch ! wide o'er earth around, 

Deep aw'e inspiring, awe till now unknown, 
Dark, undefined, that humbles to the ground 

Aspiring pride. Man's spirit bows before 

Such majesty of might, nor labors more 

To measure strength with heaven. Earth's giant brood, 

The Titan monsters, on their beds of fire, 

Pressed by thy stern rebuke, in vain aspire 
To shake thee from thy seat : the lava flood, 
Deep heaving from the centre, unsubdued. 

Moves not thy steadfast base ; nor tempests dire, 
Tornade, and torrent, thundering at thy side. 
Change th}' stern brow, severe in lordly pride. 

What are thy thoughts, proud mount! as with a frown, 
Darkening with dread the distant vales below. 
Thou lower'st, thus sternly, on our march, while slow 



38 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

We climb the steep ascent? Would'st thou send down 
Some bolt of vengeance from thy rocky crown, 

To crush our daring course? Proud mountain ! know 

Man is thy master : freely shall he go 
High o'er thy topmost towers ; and thou shalt find, 
In these frail forms, sublimities of mind, 

That dwarf th}^ giant bulk ; a brighter ra^', 
More loft}- heights, enduring powers, that last 
When mountains moulder, and their pride is past. 

Mind over matter holds e'en here its swa}'. 

E'en here commands, while subject realms obe}-. 

Alike in generous feehng and high thought 
The grand, the loft}', the sublime Ave see : 
Yon might}' mountain towers less gloriously, 

Than he, — the patriot chief, — whom nations sought 
Vainh' to honor by such monument. 

In native virtue great, he stood the same, 

When fortune frowned on worth, as when she lent 

Her aid, how needless ! to augment his fame. 
Nor, in the e3'e of reason, is the toil 

Of humbler virtue, in the vale of life, 

Where modest worth can passion's onset foil, 

And truth maintain with error's hosts the strife, 
Less glorious, than tlie fame that patriots gain 
In camp, or court, high hall, or battle plain. 



THE ANCESTRAL SEAT. 

By filial reverence led, I seek the seat, 
Where first my far progenitor his home 
Found in this western wild, and reared his dome 

Hard by this pleasant stream. Here oft his feet 

Paced the lone strand, while waves from ocean beat 
Along his path, — those waves, so late, that bore 
The pilgrim father from bis native shore. 

Did they remind him, in this far retreat, 

Of England's cultured fields, by him no more 
Revisited? Belike, till tears ran o'er 

Of tender grief; yet he nor hardship feared. 
Nor savage foe ; but gladly, on the rock. 
Fixed here his home ; nor time, nor tempest's shock 

Hath levelled jet the structure which he reared. 

Firm builded, like his own strong heart, it stands. 
By time compacted. Twice an hundred years 
Are come, and gone ; yet still this mansion rears 



WILLIAM PLUMER. 39 



Its antique front ; nor e'er to stranger hands 
Hath passed, from hardy sire to blameless son 
Transmitted still, as each his course has run. 

South, north, and west, his race is scattered wide, 

Through distant states ; and some their way have found 
To public scenes, and trod life's busy round, 

A moment, in high halls of power and pride : 

Less blest than those, who here their wishes bound 

In life's low vale ; like stream, whose waters sleep 
Calm at their source, 3'et, borne amid the sound 

Of distant broils, run headlong o'er the steep. 

Mid broils of public life it runs to waste, 

The stream of quiet thought and feeling kind, 
Which else might pause, to fertilize the mind. 

But happier these, at fitting distance placed 

Alike from wealth and want, their course have traced, 
Age after age, through scenes of useful toil, 
And lowly virtues : the}' the victor's spoil. 

The pomp of power, the poet's laurel crown. 
Nor sought, nor envied. So their eflforts gained 

Health, leisure, competence, the}' sate them down 
With these content ; nor e'er their spirits strained 

In life's mad race, for fortune, power, renown. 
Enough, while virtue's smile their labors blest, 
If love waked rapture in each blameless breast. 



LOVE. 
Love is the blending of two youthful hearts, 

E^aeh in the other fused ; union entire 

Of end and aim, in passion's glowing fire. 
Which leaves nor fracture, nor discordant parts ; 
Abandonment of self, and selfish arts. 

In generous transports of intense desire, 
Intense as pure — a feeling infinite. 
Which with unbounded service would requite 

The boon it craves ; j'et cannot less require 
Than heart for heart, true love's undoubted right. 
Modest and diflTident, and of his might 

Distrustful ever, yet doth Love aspire 
To boundless sway, and spreads his gentle power 
Alike o'er lordly hall and lowly bower. 

I tire of days in loveless labor past. 

By beauty's smile unblest. Man was not made 
For selfish joy or sorrow : sad, o'ercast. 



40 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

With hopes that fade, and joys that wither fast, 
He droops, untended, in the lonely shade. 
His paradise on earth, his heaven portraj'ed, 

Is woman's unbought love : all earth beside 

Would dark and worthless prove, were this denied. 
For ne'er ambition's spoils, nor heaps of gain 

The longings of desire could sate, or hush 

The heart's wild transports, throbbing to attain 

True bliss : but oh ! when love's warm currents gush 
From kindred hearts commingling, man again 
Finds Eden's primal bliss, else sought in vain. 



THE WEDDING. 

"And I pronounce you man and wife" — so said, 

In solemn tone, our reverend guide, as still. 
Hand linked in hand, he held us — "ye are wed : 

The twain henceforth are one." Oh ! what a thrill 
Ran through m}^ being then, of mingled dread 

And joyous transport; dread, lest I sliould prove 
For that high trust unworthy ; J03', to find 

The cherished vision of my earnest love 
No dream of fanc}^ now, but fixed, inshrined, 
Where inclination still, with willing mind, 

May bend at duty's altar. I am now 
No more, as erst, alone ; there beats for me 

One warm true heart, that feels the mutual vow 
To live in love unchanged, though bound yet.free. 



WEDDED LOVE. 

The heart-felt joys serene of wedded life, 

(Theme hard to treat, which poets seldom sing,) 
May I, unblamed, express? or dare to bring 

To public gaze, mid scenes of vulgar strife, 

Charms that adorn the matron and the wife ? 
Weak words but ill express the joys that spring 
Spontaneous, hovering still, on gentle wing, 

O'er wedded love. Howe'er with feeling rife, 
Silence may best that sacred theme befit ; 
The aim, so oft, of rude sarcastic wit. 

From ribald tongues, and hearts that never felt 
How passion, rising into perfect love. 
Repels all grossness, as it soars above, 

In virtue's fires, refining while they melt. 



WILLIAM PLUMES. 41 



The loving heart is sorrowful at thought 
Of jo}' unshared, at pleasure that confers 
Delight on self alone ; but leaps to hers, 

Whose kindred soul, with tender feeling fraught, 

Its inmost being hatli with his inwrought. 
Whate'er the passion either bosom stirs, 
Moves both alike, and equal warmth infers ; 

To him 'tis pleasure, or to her 'tis nought. 
Thus interfused, and blended into one. 

Their mingled streams of mutual feelings flow ; 
Enlarging, and enriched, as on they run. 

By time, by distance deepened ; till they know 
No adverse purpose, no desire but this. 
That each may largest share the other's bliss. 

Feelings, till then unknown, with marriage rise, 
Duties with pleasures blended ; thoughtful loves 
With soft endearment, Venus' gentle doves 

Inyoked with Juno's statelier train ; the ties 

Of home and household ; thoughts that sympathize 
With social impulses ; and joys that spring 

From toils, that find rich recompense in love. 

These now are mine : and time, on restless wing, 

Who seeks old hopes, old pleasures to remove, 

New hopes, new pleasures, doth more largely' bring. 

The heart, love-quickened, strikes deep root, and sends 

Upward its branches high : wife, servants, friends, 
Find shelter in its shade ; love's tendrils cling 

Firm round the stem ; and fruit with foliage blends. 



THE FATHER. 

Deem not th}' mind developed, nor the tone 
Of moral power perfected, till the sight 
Of thine own oflispring bring at once to light 

Those inbred tlioughts and feelings, which alone 

To parents, in that blissful hour, are shown : 

Thoughts hid in nature^s darkness, till the might 
Of love parental in the heart excite 

Hopes, joys, and fears, to lonely breasts unknown. 
Love lights the torch of Hymen ; but the ra^' 
Of infant beauty, brightening into day, 

Gives lasting radiance, to that living flame, 
Else weak, or wavering : selfish feelings yield 
To social ties ; the Father stands revealed. 

Friend, lover, guardian joined in that fond name. 



42 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

CHILDREN. 

Fret not, nor turn aside, unwedded eld ! 
If entering, unexpected, at my door, 
Tbou find'st the father stretched along the floor, 

In childish sport with children ! nor, repelled 

B}^ churlish thoughts, be sympathy withheld 

From these rude prattlers, whose young hearts run o'er 
With warm affections — felt by thee, of .yore, 

Though now forgot. In me, time hath not quelled. 
But strengthened rather, feelings that impart 
The child's warm transport to the parent's heart. 

A father's love thoii know'st not ; yet may'st see, 
In these fond looks and gestures, ties that bind, 
In firm yet tender bonds, the heart and mind 

Of sire and child, in fondest sympathy. 



FLOWERS. 

How sweet, at morn or eve, amid the flowers. 
To trace the garden walks, while bud and bloom 
Of opening plants exhale their rich perfume. 

And shed their rainbow colors ! Not the bowers. 

Where Eve in Eden passed untroubled hours, 
In youthful innocence, ere guilt brought gloom, 

Could pleasure give, more free from earthly care. 

Nor want we here, what Eve found never there. 
The parent's transport, while our ej'es run o'er 

With tears of rapture, as each happy child 

Springs gaily forth, with shout and gesture wild. 
Each path to trace, each rich recess explore. 

"Come, father ! come; look, mother! look at this" — 

Cold is his heart that warms not at such bliss. 

And say'st tbou, sage economist ! that flowers 
Are useless, since nor food nor clothes they yield 
To cold or hungry want, mere cumberers of the field ! 

And is this all ? and have our boasted powers 
No nobler aim than meanly to supply 
Our daily wants, to toil, gorge, sleep, and die? 

Go, tread yon bark-mill in its circuit, then. 
Of thankless labor, grovelling to the earth. 
With him, of stronger growth and kindred birth, 

The beast thou driv'st before thee ! leave to men, 
Na}', e'en to children, yonder girl and boy, 

Who revel mid these walks, delights to find 

In form and fragrance, which thy prouder mind 
Wants } et the gentler feeling to enjoy. 



SARAH WHITE LIVERMORE. 43 



Fair flowers are bland instructors, that still read 
Deep lessons to the thoughtful ; and infuse 

The love of natui'e into hearts that heed 

Their gentle teachings. Ask not then their use, 

If grace, and beaut}-, in their train appear, 
And love and admiration. These still lead 

To purest joj-s, despite the cynic sneer 
Of cold ungenial natures. While I gaze 

In silent pleasure, as the flowers uprear 
Freel}- their beauties to the rising sun, 
Or, timid shrinking, strive in vain to shun, 

Like modest beauty, man's intrusive praise, 
I feel their gentle power pervade each part, 
Till joy turns love to virtue in the heart. 



PATRIOTISM. 

For him who loves his countr}', and would fain 
Lay life and fortune at her feet, content 
For her to spend, and in her cause be spent, 

How hard to find his patriot labors vain, 

His cares with scorn repaid, or cold disdain : 
Dungeoned, perchance, or, worse, an exile sent 
The tears to shed of bitter banishment ; 

While servile millions mock his generous pain. 

Howl o'er his fall, and hug their tyrant's chain. 
Yet who but envies Aristides' doom. 

Thy bowl, O Socrates ! or TuUy's end ? 

And who would change the martyred Sidney's tomb 
For Charles's mirth, or James's bigot gloom? 

So far can virtue lawless power transcend ! 



Sarai) WA\)\tz Eibermore. 

Miss r^ivormore was Mie ninth cliiM and I'oiirlh daughter of Uov. Jonathan and 
Klizaheth Kidder Liverinore. Her lather was tlie lirst settled minister in Wilton. 
She was born in that town, July 20, 17."^f>. She early manifested an ardent thirst for 
knowledge, and, with little assistance ont-sidc the family, duly qualified herself to 
be a teacher in the common schools, and was among the jjioneers who organized 
Sabbath schools, about the year 1820. She taught schools fro(iuently in Keeue. 
Her death occurred July 3, 1874. 



THE BURDOCK. 

Spontaneous product of the 3'ard, 
Thy virtues by the grateful bard 

Shall not remain unsung ; 
The keenest smart thou canst assuage, 
Thy balm can cheer the latest age. 

Or soothe and ease the young. 



44 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

'TIs true thou art of homely mien, 
And never, never hast thou been 

Cultured with careful hand ; 
But only under some old hedge, 
Or in some garden's barren edge 

The}^ suffer thee to stand. 

The hand that decks the garden bower, 
And rears with care each tender flower. 

May scorn thy latent worth ; 
But soon as pain invades the head, 
Or heats and chills the frame o'erspread, 

Thine aid is then called forth. 

Thus often in some humble cell 
Secluded worth unkhown may dwell 

Till woe demands its aid ; 
It leaves awhile its native seat, 
Dispenses consolation sweet, 

Then seeks its native shade. 

Mine be the humble burdock's part, 
To soften pain, to cheer the heart, 

And wipe the tears of grief; 
And though the prosperous ma}' neglect, 
And Fortune's pets meet more respect, 

I live to give reliefs 



3J3^)n ^Farmer. 

John Farmer was a native of Chclmsforrl, Mass., but removed to Amherst in 
ISOf) at the age of sixteen. Here lie passed five yeai's, as a clerk in a store. Here 
too he studied medicine for a time, and taught school many years, until constitu- 
tional ill health made him an antiquarian. He became distinguished for his minute 
and exact knowledge relating to the early history of this State, and, in general, of 
New England. He lived iu Concord, and had an apothecary store. He died there 
Aug. 13. 1839. His X. H. Gazetteer, N. H. Register, Notes to Belknap's History, 
Town Histories, and Genealogical Uegister are monuments of his talent aud industry. 



LINES. 

In life, through every varied stage, 

In every rank and station. 
In youth, in manhood, and in age, 

While all is in mutation ; 
He who (with steadiness of mind. 

And passions ne'er uneven). 
Is ever to his lot resigned. 

On earth enjoj's a heaven. 



ELISHA SHELL FISH. 45 

EPITAPH FOR A FRIEND. 

Lamented friend ! we mourn the doom 

That sent thee earl}' to the tomb ; 
But we rejoice the path was trod 

That leads to virtue and to God. 

Calm resignation lent her aid, 

Taught him the chastening hand to bear ; 
"Within Atfliction's gloomy shade, 

lie saw his brightest bliss was near. 

Archangels all ! your anthems sing. 

With golden palms he now is crowned ; 

His soul is borne on Glory's wing. 

Where health, where endless joys abouud. 



iS(isii)a Sited J^bij. 

Elisha Snell Fish was the son of Kev. Elisha Fish of (iilsum. His mother was 
Ahigail Snell, the sister of Rev. Dr. Snell of North Brooklield, Mass., and of Mr.s. 
IJryant, the mother of William C. Bryant. He was born at \Vin'l~or, Mass., Sep- 
tember 5, 1789. At the age of five years he went with his parents to Gilsum, and 
lived on the farm where they settled, till his death at nearly eiiilitv years of a^e. 
The early death of his father in 1807, cliaiiiri'd the wlmle course of his life, and'he 
gave up his long cherished hopes of a culieiriate eilucation. His life was spent in 
horticulture, and he became very successful in that pursuit. He was a diligent 
reader of books, had a tine literary taste, and a remarkable facility in compositioH. 
The Boston Recorder and the N. il. Sentinel contain many articles from his penj 
especially in poetry. In 1814 he wrote a jsoem entitled "The Retrospect," extend- 
ing to some 2500 lines. His versification is generally very accurate, and his style 
i 8 noticeable for its energy, and frequently for the severity of its sarcasm. 



AMBITION. 

Ambition has no soul but self. 
No rights but liers she knows ; 

AVhoe'er has power, or fame, or pelf, 
She counts her natural foes. 

She's dark and cruel as the grave, 
Her robes are dyed in blood ; 

O'er smoking fields her banners wave, 
As rolls destruction's flood. 

Ambition's limitless as space, 

'Twould scale the Eternal's throne, 

Divine authority efiace. 
And substitute its own. 

She's meaner than the dust she treads, 
And more absurd than mean ; 

She courts the very death she dreads, 
Then vanishes unseen. 



46 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

She seeks among the stars to write 
A name that ne'er shall die 

By means that bring oblivion's night, 
And smiling grasps the lie. 

The name of wicked men shall rot, 
And perish all their gains ; 

'Tis thus that He who changes not 
In righteousness ordains. 

This awful sentence hangs on high. 
Suspended o'er our heads ; 

AYhile fools the warning dare defy, 
The wise man reads and dreads. 



STANZAS SUGGESTED BY THE OPENING OF CTHNA 
TO GOSPEL INFLUENCES. 

Let Christians hear from Sinim's coasts 

A more than Macedonian cr}', 
A summons from the Lord of Hosts 

To teach those heathen ere they die. 

Exclusion's wall that girt them round 

God has dissolved, to rise no more ; 
Those fields immense, all mission ground, 

Invite the reapers to their shore. 

Ye who are named of Christ arise, 

The armor of the Cross gird on ; 
Your Captain from the opening skies 

Has to the glorious conquest gone. 

Who hears the summons to obey ? 

Who blessed with sons will cheerful give ? 
Who strong in faith with fervor pray, 

"O bid those dying sinners live?" 

Who in the vigor of his j'outh, 

His life to God will consecrate 
To bear his messages of truth 

To those who thus in darkness wait? 

Who from his treasured wealth will bring, 
With liberal band and glowing heart, 

Fit offerings to his Saviour King, 
Who bids him to his cause impart ? 



ELISHA SHELL FISH. 47 



The light, the men, the wealth are here; 

The blessings of our land o'erflow : 
And who with pietj" sincere 

Can e'er presume to answer. No? 



INFERENCES AND REFLECTIONS 

Owasioned by the following passages from President Polk's Message, 1845. "That 
system of self-government which seems natural to our soil." "Furnishing another 
example that self-government is inherent in the Ameriau breast and must prevail." 

Let groaning Africans rejoice. 

Redemption draweth nigh ! 
The southern seer's prophetic voice 

Bids ever}'- tear be dry. 

His oracle has spoken well, 

'Tis thus that Heaven has willed ; 
That voice is slavery's final knell ; 

Her destiny's fulfilled. 

The "soil" her cruel footsteps tread. 

Possesses native power 
To bow Oppression's loft}' head, 

And haste her final hour. 

The air she breathes is Freedom's gale, 

And Independence bold 
It flings on every hill and vale 

Where men are bought and sold. 

The northern breeze o'er Dixon's line 

Is wafting health and light ; 
Averted eyes perceive the sign, 

And shun the unwelcome sight. 

"Self-government inherent" lies 

Within the native breast, 
That, bursting from its cell, shall rise 

And claim its high behest. 

The institutions of our land, 

With one exception, bear 
That deep impression, broad and grand, 

Which Pilgrim structures wear. 

God's seal is on them, and his arm 

Is stretched for their defence ; 
Their influence, with a heavenly charm, 

Shall drive the exception hence. 



48 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Well, prophet, thou hast spoken right, 

However short thy ken. 
For soon will Freedom's growing light 

Pour in on sable men. 

And Freedom's sword they yet shall wield, 
Yet reason's strength employ ; 

Their chains shall fall, their stripes be healed. 
Their sorrows turned to joy. 

* No thanks, O seer, to thee are due 

For words so just and right ; 
Thy utterances, though wise and true, 
Reached far beyond thy sight. 

So once Caiaphas prophesied 

In words not understood, 
When God's own Son he crucified. 

And stained his soul with blood. 

O Slaver}^, thou shalt die at last. 

Though thou in Texas hide ; 
Thy knell shall peal on every blast, 

That sweeps thy deserts wide. 

Thy friends by artifice and wile 

May lengthen out thy day ; 
'Tis but reprieve : thy doom meanwhile 

Grows heavier by delay. 

Keen ridicule in taunting jests 

At thy pretensions sneers ; 
The curse of God upon thee rests. 

And shakes thy land with fears. 

Dark ignorance its baleful shade, 

Has cast upon thy coast ; 
And vices, here unnamed, degrade 

The men that are thy boast. 

Crime, shame and poverty are thine, 

A trinity of woe : 
Dost doubt? — go thread Ohio's line. 

Thine eye will tell thee so. 

The curse of men that feel thy sting 

Still deepens day by day ; 
Those whispers low shall thunders bring, 

And sweep the scourge away. 



NA THANIEL A PPLETON EA VEN. 4 

The light of Heaven shall o'er thee flow, 

Nor leave thee place nor name, 
Known onl}' in those realms of woe 

From whence thy presence came. 



Nathaniel ^ppletnn l^aben. 

This distinguished orator was born in Poi-tsmoutli, Jan. 14,1700. He graduated 
at Harvard College, and afterwards studied law. He delivered orations on various 
occasions, and for several years was editor of the Portsmouth Journal. He died 
in his native town, June 3,1856. 



AUTUMN. 

I love the dews of night, 

I love the howling wind ; 
I love to hear the tempests sweep 
Over the billows of the deep : 
For nature's saddest scenes delight 

The melancholy mind. 

Autumn ! I love thv bower, 

With faded garlands drest ; 
How sweet, alone to linger there 
When tempests ride the midnight air. 
To snatch from mirth a fleeting hour. 

The sabbath of the breast. 

Autumn ! I love thee well ; 

Though bleak th}' breezes blow ; 
I love to see the vapors rise, 
And clouds roll wildly round the skies. 
Where from the plain the mountains swell, 

And foaming torrents flow. 

Autumn ! thy fading flowers 

Droop not to bloom again ; 
So man, though doomed to grief awhile, 
To hang on Fortune's fickle smile. 
Shall glow in heaven with nobler powers 

Nor sigh for peace in vain. 



PRAYER. 

Great God ! at midnight's solemn hour, 
I own th}' goodness and thy power ; 
But bending low before thy throne, 
I pray not for myself alone. 



50 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

I pray for her^ ray dearest friend, 
For her m}' fervent prajers ascend ; 
And while to thee m}^ vows I bring, 
For her my warmest wishes spring. 

While dark and silent rolls the night, 
Protect her with th}' heavenly might ; 
Thy curtain round her pillow spread. 
And circling angels guard her bed. 

Let peaceful slumbers press her eyes, 
Till morning beams in splendor rise ; 
And pure and radiant as that beam 
Ee the light vision of her dream. 

Let each succeeding morn impart 
New pleasures to her tranquil heart ; 
And richer blessings crown the night, 
Thau met the view at morning light. 

Whate'er my swelling heart desires, 
AVhen fervent prayer to heaven aspires, 
Whate'er has warmed my fancy's glow 
May she, with tenfold richness, know. 

O God ! may she th_y laws fulfil, 
And live and die th}- favorite still ; 
Live to enjoy thy bounteous hand, 
And die to join the seraph band. 



HYMN FOR THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1813. 

Father, again before thy throne. 

Thy suppliant children huniblj- pra}' ; 

A¥ith grateful hearts thy mercy own, 
That crowns once more their natal day. 

Though War our fertile valley's stain. 
Though Slaughter bare his gory hand, 

Though Famine lead her ghastly train, 
We glor}^ in our native land. 

Yes : 'tis our own, our father's home, — 

Their ashes rest beneath the sod : 
The fields that now our children roam. 

Their footsteps once as gladly trod. 

Our hard}^ sons who till the earth, 
Undaunted still will danger face : 



AMOS ANDREW PARKER. ;A 



The land that gave our fathers birtli 
Will never bear a coward race. 

The gallant few who plough the deep, 
Can sternl}' meet the raging storm ; 

And o'er the swelling ocean sweep, 
Unmoved at Danger's giant form. 

But braver hearts have shrunk from fight, 
When kindred blood must dye the steel ; 

The boldest to contend for right 
The ties of nature strongest feel. 

Father, once more "good-will" proclaim, 
And bid conflicting passions cease ; 

Repress each proud, ambitious aim. 

And give thy suppliant cliildren '' peace." 



Mr. Parker was born in Jltzwilliam in IV'.ci. In 18]:i ho j^radiiatcd at the I'liiAer- 
silvof Vermont in Burlington. He became a lawyer in Kpiiing: \v< ul to (■(uu-oril 
in 18-2;{, and wa~ for a few years editor of the N. H. Statesman; practif^ed law from 
l!s-2tJ to If'^V, in New Market, when he returned to his native town, where, besides 
bis profes.sioiial business, he engaged in other pursuits. He has served in the L-gis- 
lature during tliirteen sessions. He lias been author of several books, among which 
are: "A Trip to the West and Texas," of which forty ihoti-^and copies were sold: 
•'I'ocms at Fourscore"; and "KecoUeclions of lienei'al Lafayette's M>it, and ^^ketch 
of His Life." And now, at the age of fourscore years and ten, lie is enjoying a se- 
rene old age at Glastonbury, Conn., having thus far lived a stri<aiy temperate life. 
His poems were either wrilteu early or late in life. 



THE PARTING HOUR. 

And now, dear friends, the i)arting hour 

Most saiUy grieves my heart ; 
Yet writers, readers, lovers, friends, 

Are destined all to i)arl. 
Why this should be our destiny, 

Puzzles the strongest mind ; 
Yet those that go are happier 

Than those they leave behind. 

No matter if the journey be 

Dangerous, near or far, 
To the bleak sea or wild frontier, 

Or daring deeds of war ; 
Yet active scenes so much engage 

The body and the mind. 
That those who go are happier 

Than those they leave behind. 



52 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Tlie bride that leaves her parents' home 

Ma}' leave it bathed in tears ; 
Yet rainbow hope across her path 

Dispels her doubts and fears. 
But the dear friends that she has left, 

Wiiat comfort can they find 
But that the bride is happier 

Than those she leaves behind ? 

If in the daily walks of life, 

You have a valued friend. 
Be sure that your sweet intercourse 

In time will have an end ; 
And when you part, as part you must, 

You then will surel}' find 
The one that goes the happiest, 

The saddest left behind. 

But parting scenes will surely end 

When time shall be no more. 
And we shall meet the absent friends 

That have gone on before ; 
When Gabriel blows his trumpet blast 

To summon all mankind, 
Immortals then will meet at last, 

And none be left behind. 



JILTED. 

Betrothed ! you now have locked the door. 

Between yourself and me ; 
And that it should not open more 

Have thrown away the ke^'. 

And I am left out in the cold, 

While you are warm inside ; 
And tell me I am now too old 

For you to be my bride. 

Belike you would not were I young, 
And you were "sweet sixteen" ; 

Although you have a silver tongue, 
I know not what you mean. 

A woman is a sealed book. 
And who can break the seals? 

The binding has a pleasant look. 
But nothing that reveals. 



CARLOS WILCOX. 53 



The wisest man that ever lived, 

Dealt largely with the lair, 
And tried a'thousand ! then he wei)t. 

And gave up in despair. 

I've wooed and wooed for ten long years, 

And often thought I won ; 
Alternate have been hopes and fears, 

But now my task is done. 

I sometimes thought I had a place 

Assigned me in your heart. 
But find at last a smiling face 

Is but the work of art. 

I bid you now a last farewell, 

And leave you with regret ; 
For once you were, you know right well, 

To me a chosen pet. 

And now I seek, and hope I may 

A true companion find, 
Wlio will not, on her wedding day. 

Tell me she's changed her mind. 



Carlos Wilcox was born in Newport, October 23, ITiU. In his fourth year iiis 
nareiits removed to Orwell, Vermont. He graduated at ISIiddlelnxry Collejre, and 
8ludied theoloffv at Andover, Mass. He became a Cons-Te-alional minister in ISls, 
and after preaclnng a few montlis, was obli-ed to rest in.ni his dnties <m account of 
ill heilth In 18'21 he became pastor of the North Church m Ilartlord, ( cnn. He 
resi^ned'this situation after two years. He .bed May ii), 1S-2T. He was much 
en!ra"-ed in the composition of his two poems, "The Aire ot Benevolence," and 
"The'^Keli"-ion of Taste," the liist in blank verse, and the last in Spencerian stanza, 
neither of %vbu-h did he live to complete. The specimens here given are extracts 
from the long poems. 

ACTIVE CHRISTIAN BENEVOLENCE. 

Wouldst thou from sorrow find a sweet relief? 
Or is thy heart oppressed witli woes untold ? 
Balm wouldst tliou gather for corroding grief? 
Pour blessings round thee like a shower of gold : 
'Tis when the rose is wrapt in many a fold 
Close to its heart, the worm is wasting there 
Its life and beauty ; not when, all unrolled, 
Leaf after leaf, its bosom, rich and fair, 
Ikeathes freely its perfumes throughout the ambient air. 

Wake, thou that sleepest in enchanted bowers. 
Lest these lost years should haunt thee on the night 



54 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

When death is waiting for thy numbered hours 
To take their swift and everlasting flight ; 
Wake, ere the earth-born charm unnerve thee quite, 
And be thy thoughts to work divine addressed ; 
Do sometliing — do it soon — with all thy might ; 
An angel's wing would droop if long at rest. 
And God himself, inactive, wei^e no longer blest. 

Some high or humble enterprise of good 
Contemplate, till it shall possess thy mind, 
Become thy stud}', pastime, rest, and food, 
And kindle in thy heart a flame reflned. 
Pray heaven for firmness thy whole soul to bind 
To this th}- purpose — to begin, pursue, 
Witli thoughts all fixed, and feelings purely kind ; 
Strength to complete, and with deliglit review. 
And grace to give the praise where all is ever due. 

No good of worth sublime will Heaven permit 
To light on man as from the passing air ; 
The lamp of genius, though by nature lit. 
If not protected, pruned, and fed with care. 
Soon dies, or runs to waste with fitful glare ; 
And learning is a plant that spreads and towers 
Slow as Columbia's aloe, proudly rare. 
That, 'mid gay thousands, with the suns and showers 
Of half a centur}', grows alone before it flowers. 

Has immortality of name been given 
To them that idl}' worship hills and groves, 
And burn sweet incense to the queen of heaven ? 
Did Newton learn from fanc}', as it roves. 
To measure worlds and follow, where each moves? 
Did Howard gain renown that shall not cease. 
By wanderings wild that nature's pilgrim loves? 
Or did Paul gain heaven's glory and its peace. 
By musing o'er the bright and tranquil isles of Greece? 

Beware lest thou, from sloth that would appear 
But lowliness of mind, with joy proclaim 
Thy want of worth ; a charge thou couldst not hear 
From other lips without a blush of shame, 
Or pride indignant ; then be thine the blame, 
And make thyself of worth ; and thus enlist 
The smiles of all the good, the dear to fame ; 
'Tis infamy to die and not be missed. 
Or let all soon forget that thou didst e'er exist. 



CARLOS WILCOX. 55 



Rouse to some work of high and hol^' love, 
And thou an angel's happiness shalt know, — 
Shalt bless the earth while in the world above ; 
The good begun b}' thee shall onward flow 
In inan3' a branching stream, and wider grow ; 
The seed, that, in these few and fleeting hours, 
Thy hands unsparing and unwearied sow. 
Shall deck thy grave with amaranthine flowers. 
And vield thee fruits divine in heaven's immortal bowers. 



LIVE FOR ETERNITY. 

A bright or dark eternity in view, 
With all its fixed, unutterable things. 
What madness in the living to pursue. 
As their chief portion with the speed of wings. 
The joys that death-beds alwnys turn to stings ! 
Infatuated man on earth's smooth waste 
To dance along the path that always brings 
Quick to an end, from which with tenfold haste 
Back would he gladly fly till all should be retraced ! 

Our life is like the hurrying on the eve 
Before we start on some long journej- bound, 
When fit preparing to the last we leave, 
Then run to every room the dwelling round. 
And sigh that nothing needed can be found ; 
Yet go we must, and soon as day shall break ; 
AVe snatch an hour's repose, when loud the sound 
For our departure calls ; we rise and take 

A (juiek and sad farewell, and go ere well awake- 
Reared in the sunshine, blasted by the storms. 
Of changing time, scarce asking why or whence, 
Alen come and go like vegetable forms, 
Though heaven appoints for them a work immense. 
Demanding constant thought and zeal intense. 
Awaked by hopes and fears that leave no room 
For rest to mortals in the dread suspense. 
While yet the}' know not if be^'ond the tomb 

A long, long life of bliss or woe shall be their doom. 

What matter whether pain or pleasure fill 
The swelling heart one little moment here? 
From both alike how vain is ever\- thrill, 
Wliile an untried eternity is near ; 
Think not of rest, fond man, in life's career ; 



56 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

The joys and griefs that meet thee, dash aside 
Like bubbles, and th}' bark right onward steer. 
Through cahn and tempest, till it cross the tide, 
Shoot into port in triumph, or serenely glide. 



SUNSET IN SEPTEMBER. 

The sun now rests upon the mountain tops — 
Begins to sink behind — is half concealed — 
And now is gone ; the last faint twinkling beam 
Is cut in twain by the sharp rising ridge. 
Sweet to the pensive is departing da}-, 
When only one small cloud, so still and thin, 
So thoroughly imbued with amber light. 
And so transparent, that it seems a spot 
Of brighter sk}', be^'ond the farthest mount, 
Hangs o'er the hidden orb ; or where a few 
Long, narrow stripes of denser, darker grain. 
At each end sharpened to a needle's point. 
With golden borders, sometimes straight and smooth. 
And sometimes crinkling like the lightning stream, 
A half hour's space above the mountain lie ; 
Or when the whole consolidated mass 
That only threatened rain, is broken up 
Into a thousand parts, and 3'et is one, 
One as the ocean broken into waves ; 
And all its spongy parts, imbibing deep 
The moist effulgence, seem like fleeces dyed 
Deep scarlet, saffron light, or crimson dark. 
As they are thick or thin, or near or more remote, 
All fading soon as lower sinks the sun. 
Till twilight end. But now another scene, 
To me most beautiful of all, appears : 
The sky, without the shadow of a cloud. 
Throughout the west, is kindled to a glow 
So bright and broad it glares upon the eye, 
Not dazzling, but dilating with calm force 
Its power of vision to admit the whole. 
Below, 'tis all of richest orange dj-e, 
Midway the blushing of the mellow peach 
Paints not but tinges the ethereal deep ; 
And here, in this most lovely region, shines. 
With added loveliness, the evening-star. 
Above, the fainter purple slowly fades. 
Till changed into the azure of mid-heaven. 



CARLOS WILCOX. 



Along the level riclge, o'er which the sun 
Descended, in a single row arranged, 
As if thus planted b}' the hand of art, 
Majestic pines shoot up into the sky. 
And in its fluid gold seem half dissolved. 
Upon a nearer peak, a cluster stands 
With shafts erect, and tops converged to one, 
A stately colonnade with verdant roof; 
Upon a nearer still, a single tree, 
"With shapely form, looks beautiful alone ; 
While, farther northward, through n narrow pass 
Scooped in the hither range, a single mount 
Beyond the rest, of finer smoothness seems, 
And of a softer, more ethereal blue, 
A pyramid of polislied sapphire built. 

But now the twilight mingles into one 
The various mountains ; levels to a plain 
This nearer, lower landscape, dark with shade, 
Wliere ever}' object to ra}' sight presents 
Its shaded side ; while here upon these walls. 
And in that eastern wood, ui)on the trunks 
Under thick foliage, reflective shows . 
Its yellow lustre. How distinct tiie line 
Of the horizon parting heaven and earth. 



SPRING IN NEAT ENGLAND. 

The spring, made drear}' b}' incessant rain, 
AVas well nigh gone, and not a glimpse appeared 
Of vernal loveliness, but light-green turf 
Round the deep bubbling fountain in the vale. 
Or by the rivulet on the hill-side, near 
Its cultivated base, fronting the south, 
AVhere, in the flrst warm rays of iVlarch, it sprung 
Amid dissolving snow : — save these mere specks 
Of earliest verdure, with a few pak; flowers. 
In other years bright blowing, soon as eartii 
Unveils her lace, and a faint vermil tinge 
On clumps of maple of the softer kind, 
AVas nothing visible to give to iNlay, 
Though far advanced, an aspect more like hcr's 
Than like November's universal gloom. 
All day beneath the sheltering hovel stood 
The drooping herd, or lingered near to ask 
The food of winter. A few lonel}' birtls, 



08 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 



Of those that in this northern clime remain 

Throughout the year, and in the dawn of spring, 

At pleasant noon, from their unknown retreat, 

Come suddenly to view with livelj^ notes, 

Or those that soonest to this clime return 

From warmer regions, in thick groves were seen. 

But with their feathers ruffled and despoiled 

Of all their glossy lustre, sitting mute, 

Ov onh' skipping, with a single chirp. 

In quest of food. Whene'er the heavy clouds, 

That half way down the mountain side oft hung, 

As if o'erloaded with their watery store, 

Were parted, though with motion unobserved. 

Through their dark opening, white with snow appeared 

Its lowest, e'en its cultivated, peaks. 

With sinking heart the husbandman surveyed 

The melancholy scene, and much his fears 

On famine dwelt ; when, suddenh' awaked 

At the first glimpse of daylight, by the sound, 

Long time unheard, of cheerful martins, near 

His window, round their dwelling chirping quick. 

With spirits by hope enlivened, up he sprung. 

To look abroad, and to his joy beheld, 

A sky without the remnant of a cloud. 

From gloom to gayety and beaut}- bright 

So rapid now the universal change. 

The rude survey it with delight refined. 

And e'en the thoughtless talk of thanks devout. 

Long swoln in drenching rain, seeds, germs, and buds, 

Start at the touch of vivifying beams. 

Moved by their secret force, the vital l3-mph 

Difl^usive runs, and spreads o'er w^ood and field 

A flood of verdure. Clothed in one short week, 

Is naked nature in her full attire. 

On the first morn, light as an open plain 

Is all the woodland, filled with sunbeams, poured 

Through the bare tops on yellow leaves below, 

With strong reflection : on the last, 'tis dark 

With full grown foliage, shading all within. 

In one short week, the orchard buds and blooms ; 

And now, when steeped in dew or gentle showers, 

It yields the purest sweetness to the breeze, 

Or all the tranquil atmosphere perfumes. 

E'en from the juic}' leaves, of sudden growth. 

And the rank grass of steaming ground, the air, 

Filled with a watery glimmering, receives 



CARLOS WILCOX. 59 



A grateful smell, exhaled b}' warming rays. 
Each da}- are heard, and almost ever}- hour, 
New notes to swell the music of tlie grovi s. 
And soon the latest of the feathered train 
At evening twilight come ; — the lonely snipe, 
O'er marshy lields, high in the dusky air, 
Invisible, but with faint, tremulous tones, 
Hovering or playing o'er the listener's head ; — 
And, in mid-air, the sportive night-hawk, seen 
Flying awhile at random, uttering oft 
A cheerful cry, attended with a shake 
Of level pinions, dark, but, wlien upturned. 
Against the brightness of the western sky. 
One white plume showing in the midst of each, 
Then far down diving, with loud hollow sound ;— 
And deep at first within the distant wood, 
Tlie whip-poor-will, her name her only song. 
She, soon as children from the noisy sport 
Of whooping, laughing, talking with all tones, 
To hear the echoes of the empty barn, 
Are by her voice diverted, and held mute, 
Comes to the margin of the nearest grove ; 
And when the twilight, deepened into night. 
Calls them within, close to the house she comes, 
And on its dark side, haply on the step 
Of unfrequented door, lighting unseen, 
Breaks into strains articulate and clear. 
The closing sometimes quickened as in sport. 
Now animate throughout, from morn to eve 
All harmony, activity, and joy. 
Is lovely Nature, as in her blest prime. 
The robin to the garden, or green yard, 
Close to the door repairs to build again 
Within her wonted tree ; and at her w-ork 
Seems doubly busy, for her past delay. 
Along the surface of the winding stream. 
Pursuing every turn, gay swallows skim ; 
C)r round the borders of the spacious lawn 
Fly in repeated circles, rising o'er 
Hillock and fence, with motion serpentine. 
Easy and light. One snatches from the ground 
A downy feather, and then upward springs. 
Followed by others, l)ut oft drops it soon. 
In playful mood, or from too slight a hold. 
When all at once dart at the falling prize. 
The flippant blackbird, with light yellow crown. 



60 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Hangs fluttering in the air, and chatters thick 
Till her breath fail, when, breaking off, she drops 
On the next tree, and on its highest limb. 
Or some tall flag, and, geutl}' rocking, sits. 
Her strain repeating. 



Saralj J. l^alc. 

Mrs. Hale was born in Newport in 1795. Her ecluoation was prino.ipanv directerl 
by her mother and a brother in college, and by her husband, David Hale, an emi- 
nent lawyer. On his death, in 1822, she was left dependent upon her own exertions 
for her support and that of her Ave children, the eldest of whom was but seven 
years of age, and as a resource she turned to literature. A volume, "The Genius 
of ObUvion,and other Original Poems," was published in lS-23, and in 1827 a novel, 
"Northwood," in two volumes. She removed to Boston in 18-28 to comluct the- 
American Ladies' Magazine. In 1838 she became editor of the Lady's Book, pub- 
lished in Philadelphia, which position she occupied during the remainder of her 
life. She became the author of a large number of books. Her poems are for the 
most part narrative and reflective, and are written with force aud elegance. She 
died in Philadelpliia, April 30, 1879. 



THE ROSE-TREE AT THE BIRTH-PLACE OF WASH- 
INGTON. 

Bright rose ! what dost thou here, amid 

These sad mementoes of the past? 
The crumbling stones thy roots have hid. 

The bramble's shade is o'er thee cast. 
Yet still th}'' glowing beauty seems 
Fair as young childhood's happy dreams. 

The sunbeam on the heaving surf 

Proclaims the tempest's rage is o'er ; 
The violet on the frozen turf. 

Breathes of the smiling spring once more ; 
But rose, thy mission to the heart, 
In things that alter, hath no part. 

The mossgrown ruins round are spread, 
Scarce rescued from earth's trodtlen mass. 

And time-scathed trees, whose branches dead 
Lie cumbering o'er the matted grass : 

These tell the tale of life's brief day, 

Hope, toil, enjoyment, death, decay ! 

The common record this of man, 

We read, regret, and pass it by, 
And rear the towers that deck our span, 

Above the grave where nations lie ; 
And heroes, who like meteors shone, 
Are like the meteor's flashings, gone. 



SARAn J. BALE. Gl 



But, radiant rose, thj- beaut}' breaks 
Like CA'e's first star upon the sight ; 

A holier hue the vision takes, 

Tlie ruins shine with heaven's clear light ; 

His name, who placed thy root in earth, 

Doth consecrate th}- place of birth. 

Yet 'tis not here his wreath we twine. 

Nor here tliat Freedom's chief we praise ; 

The stars at rising softer shine, 

Than when o'er night's dark vault the}- blaze ; 

Not here, with Washington's great name 

Blend his achievements or his fame. 

But brighter, holier is the my 

Which rests on this devoted ground : 

Here passed his childhood's happy day. 
Here glory's bud meet culture found : 

Maternal smiles, and tears, and prayer, 

1'hese were its light, its dew, its air. 

Bright rose ! for this thy flower hath sprung, 
The mother's steadfast love to show ; 

Th}' odor on the gale is flung, 

As pours that love its lavish flow ; 

The mother's lot with hope to cheer, 

TA'pe of her heart, thou bloomest here. 



I SING TO PIIM. 

I sing to him — I dream he hears 

The song he used to love. 
And oft that blessed fancy cheers 

And bears my thoughts above. 
Ye say, 'tis idle thus to dream — 

But why believe it so ? 
It is the spirit's meteor gleam 

To soothe the pang of woe. 

Love gives to Nature's voice a tone 

That true hearts understand ; 
The sky, the earth, the forest lone, 

Are peopled b}' his wand. 
Sweet fancies all our fancies thrill, 

AVhile gazing on a flower. 
And from the gentl}' whispering rill 

Are heard the words of power. 



62 rOETS OF NEW EAMPSHJUE. 

I breathe the dear and cherished name, 

And long-lost scenes ai'ise ; 
Life's glowing landscape spreads the same, 

The same hope's kindling skies ; 
The violet bank^ the moss-fringed seat 

Beneath the drooping tree. 
The clock that chimed the hour to meet, 

M}' buried love, with thee ;— - 

O, these are all before me, when 

In fanc}' 's realms I rove : 
Wh^' urge me to the world again ? 

Wliy sa_y, the ties of love, 
That death's cold, cruel grasp has riven. 

Unite no more below? 
I'll sing to him — for, though in heaven. 

He surely heeds mj' woe ! 



THE LIGHT OF HOME. 

My boy, thou wilt dream the world is fair, 

And thy spirit will sigh to roam ; 
And thou must go ; but never, when there, 

Forget the light of home. 

Though pleasure may smile with a ray more bright, 

It dazzles to lead astray ; 
Like the meteor's flash 'twill deepen the night. 

When thou treadest the lonely way. 

But the hearth of home has a constant flame. 

And pure as A^estal fire ; 
'Twill burn, 'twill burn, forever the same. 

For nature feeds the pyre. 

The sea of ambition is tempest-tost, 
And thy hopes may vanish like foam ; 

But when sails are shivered and rudder lost. 
Then look to the light of home ; 

And there, like a star through the midnight cloud. 

Thou shalt see the beacon bright ; 
For never, till shining on th}' shroud, 

Can be quenched its hol3' light. 

The sun of fame, 'twill gild the name ; 
But the heart ne'er felt its ray ; 



SARAH J. HALE. 6 J 



And fashion's smiles, that rich ones claim 
Are but beams of a wintiy day. 

And bow cold and dim those beams must be, 
Should life's ■wretched wanderer come ! 

But, my boy, when the world is dark to thee, 
Then turn to the bght of home. 



THE SILK-WORM. 

There is no form upon our earth. 
That bears the mighty Maker's seal, 

But has some charm : to draw it forth. 
We need but hearts to feel. 

I saw a fair young girl — her face 

Was sweet as dream of cherished friend — 
Just at the age wlien childhood's grace 

And maiden softness blend. 

A silk-worm in her hand she laid ; 

Nor fear, nor yet disgust was stirred ; 
But gayly with her charge she plajed, 

As 'twere a nestling bird. 

She raised it to her dimpled cheek. 

And let it rest and revel there : 
O, why for outward beaut}' seek ! 

Love makes its favorites fair. 

That worm — I should have shrunk, in truth, 
To feel the reptile o'er me move, — 

But loved by innocence and youth, 
1 deemed it worth}- love. 

AVould we, I thought, the soul imbue. 

In early life, with s^-mpathies 
For ever}' harmless thing, and view 

Such creatures formed to please, — 

And, when with usefulness combined. 
Give them our love and gentle care, — 

O, we would have a world as kind 
As God has made it fair. 

There is no form upon our earth. 
That bears the mighty Maker's seal. 

But has some charm : to call this forth 
We need but hearts to feel. 



64 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

WiiWmm iUittgijam Cappan. 

William B. Tappan was born in Beverly, Mass., October 29, 1795. His parents re- 
moved to Portsmouth when he was young, where he was educated. In early life 
he learned a trade. He was for a series of years Agent of the American Sunday 
School Union at different ilepositories. Several years before his death he began to 
preach, but was never ordained, and never had charge of a parish. His poems are 
dear to every lover of sacred verse. 



TPIE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

I gazed upon the mountain top, 

That pierced in twain the passing cloud, 
And wondered at its giant form, 

So dark, magnificent, and proud. 

Can this strong mountain from its base 
Be shaken by the tempest's shock? 

Can all the gathered thunders stir 
This everlasting solid rock 

And scatter forth its dust like hail ? 

And fling its fragments on the air? 
Can aught created wield such strength ? 

Exists such power? O, tell me where. 

They may remove ; these mountains may 
Tremble, and hence forever pass ; 

These hills that pillar upon the skies, 
Perish, as doth the new-mown gi'ass. 

Yea, saith the Lord, they shall depart, 
The hills, and all the solid land. 

But my rare word of truth remains, 
My promise shall forever stand. 



THERE IS AN HOUR OF PEACEFUL REST. 

There is an hour of peaceful rest 

To mourning wanderers given ; 
There is a joy for souls distressed ; 
A balm for every wounded breast, — 

'Tis found alone in Heaven. 

There is a soft, a downy bed. 

Far from these shades of even ; 
A couch for weary mortals spread. 
Where they may rest the aching head, 

And find repose — in Heaven. 



WILLIAM BINOHAM TAPPAN 65 

There is a home for weary souls 

B3' sin and sorrow driven, 
When tossed on Life's tempestuous shoals, 
Where storms arise, and ocean rolls. 

And all is drear, — 'tis Heaven. 

There Faith lifts up her cheerful eye, 

To brighter prospects given, 
And views the tempest passing by. 
The evening shadows quickly fly. 

And all serene in Heaven. 

There fragrant flowers immortal bloom, 

And J03-S supreme are given ; 
Tliere rays divine disperse the gloom : 
Beyond the confines of the tomb 

Appears the dawn of heaven. 



THE OLD NORTH BURIAL GROUND IN PORTS- 
MOUTH, N. H. 

I stand where I have stood before in bo3'hood's sunny prime, — 
The same, yet not the same, but one who wears the touch of 

Time, — 
And gaze around on what was then familiar to the e3'e. 
But whose inconstant features tell that 3'ears have jourue3-ed by, 

Since o'er this venerable ground, a truant child I pla3'ed. 

And chased the bee and plucked the flower where ancient dust 
is laid ; 

And hearkened, in m3' wondering mood, when tolled the pass- 
ing bell ; 

And started at the coffin's cry as clods upon it fell. 

These mossy tombs I recollect, the same o'er which I pored ; 
The same these rh3-mes and texts with which my mind was 

stored ; 
These humble tokens too, that lean, and tell where resting 

bones 
Are hidden though their date and name have perished from the 

stones. 

How rich these precincts with the spoils of ages buried here ! 
What hearts have aclied, what e3-es have given this conscious 

earth tlie tear ! 
How many friends, whose welcome cheered their now-deserted 

doors, 
Have, since my last sojourning, swelled these melanchol3' stores ! 



66 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Yon spot, where in the sunset r^j a single white stone gleams, 

I've visited, I can not tell how often, in m}' dreams, — 

That spot o'er which I wept, though then too 3'oung my loss to 

know, 
As I beheld m^^ father's form sepulchred far below. 

How freshlj^ every circumstance, though seas swept wide be- 
tween. 

And years have vanished since that hour, in vagaries I've 
seen ! — 

The lifted lid, that countenance, the funeral arra^', — 

As vividly as if the scene were but of yesterda}'. 

How pleasant seem the moments now, as up their shadows 

come, 
Spent in the domicile that wore the sacred name of home ! — 
How in the vista years have made, they shine with mellowed 

light. 
To which meridian bliss has nought so beautiful and bright ! 

How happy were those fireside hours, how happy summer's 

walk, 
When listening to m}^ father's words, or joining in the talk ! 
How passed like dreams those early hours, till down upon us 

burst 
The avalanche of grief, and laid our pleasures in the dust ! 

The}' tell of loss ; but who can tell how thorough is the stroke 

By which the tie of sire and son in death's forever broke ? 

They tell of time ! — though he may heal the heart that's wound- 
ed sore, 

The household bliss thus blighted. Time ! canst thou again re- 
store ? 

Yet if this spot recalls the dead, and brings from Memory's leaf 
A sentence wrote in bitterness, of raptures bright and brief, 
1 would not shun it, nor would lose the moral it will give 
To teach me by the withered Past, for better hopes to live. 

And though to warn of future woe, or whisper future bliss, 
One comes not from the spirit- world, a witness unto this ; 
Yet, from memorials of his dust, 'tis wholesome thus to learn. 
And print upon our thought the state to which we must return. 

"Wherever then my pilgrimage in coming da3's shall be, 

My frequent visions, favorite ground ! shall backward glance to 

thee : 
The holy dead, the by-gone hours, the precepts early given, 
Shall sweetly soothe and influence my homeward way to heaven. 



GEORGE KENT. 67 



(BtoxQt^tnt. 




I'onllniied there in practice — a part of the time aloue and a portion ol' the time wltli 
ii partner— till 1840; combining- with his profession, a greater part of Hie time, the 
easliiership of the Concord Bank. He was twice elected (iu 1^28 and 183S) a nu-ni- 
Ijcr of the N. H. Legislature, and was a Trustee of Dartmouth Colleg-e from 18:17 to 
1840. For live or six years, from 1825 to 1831, he was editor and part proprietor ol'a 
weekly newspaper, the N. H. Statesman and Concord Register. Going West in 184:5 
he was, for a portion of the two years succeeding, in editorial charge of the Indiana 
state Journal. Returning P^ast the year after, he was engaged, during its brief e.\is. 
tence of about a year, as editor of tlie IJosion J)aily Sun. After a few years' resi- 
dence In and about Hoston — a part of the time in the jiraclice oilaw, and" for two or 
three years doing duty as Inspector in the Boston ('ustom House— he reniored in 
18.5-1, to Bangor, Maine, and entered into law partnership with his brother, the late 
Kx Governor Kdward Kent. Continuing in this connection for five or six years he 
was, in December 18G1, appointed by Presiclent Lincoln U.S. Consul at Valencia 
Spain. Returning home after four years' absence, and coming to Washington City 
in 186!), he was, not long after, appointed to a clerkship in the U. S. Treasury Depart- 
ment, which he still holds. 



THOUGHTS AT THE BASE OF NIAGARA FALLS. 

"The voice of many waters !" not the sound 

"Still, small" and waveless, like the "voice" that awed, 

In solemn silence, the prophetic ear, 

Betokening the unseen j'et present God. 

Not in the earthquake was the voice sublime, 
Though the earth shook and trembled to its seat ; 
Nor in the whirlwind, nor the fire, was felt 
The hand divine, outstretch'd o'er the expanse. 
No thunder gave the sound — save that wliich pours 
Its ceaseless rumbling from earth's watery beil ; 
But there was power — deep, awful, present j)ower, 
I'ervading mightiest hearts — such as to quail 
Man's proudest spirit before Nature's God. 
But for the "bow of promise," midwa}- stretched — 
Token of peace between the earth and Heaven — 
The waste of waters might have seem'd a Hood, 
Again to drown a rebel world in woe. 

Upward I gaze — and through the flaky mist, 

Stretching its drapoiy o'er the giant brow, 

Tiiat heaves, at point sublime, its awful front, 

I note the mighty elemental force 

Which needs but word divine to whelm a world ; 

And, lost in wonder, lose myself in Him, 

Whose power no less can stay the mighty mass. 

And "hold it in the hollow of his hand," 

And say, and be obey'd, "Proud waves be, still!" 



G8 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Freedom is imaged here in Nature's glass, 

"Lord of the lion heart and eagle eye" ; 

These clifts bespeak its mountain home — these waves 

Murmur of largest liberty to man. 

Eternity is boded to my view, 
By this outpouring from the groaning earth — 
This ceaseless war of elements, and rush 
Of nature's fountains from "deep unto deep." 
The arch above,* from my last parting glance, 
Seem'd to the wondering gaze of raptur'd sight, 
Like the periphery of Nature's wheel, 
Revolving in mid-heaven's enlarged expanse ; 
Still to roll on when the last man shall take 
His farewell of a world enwrapt in flame. 



"HOPE ON— HOPE EVER." 

Gone from my heart is the bright array 
Of hopes that gladden'd my summer day ; 
The leaves are sere on "the almond tree," 
And "a burden the grasshopper is" to me. 

It is not my heart is less warm and kind, 
Tlian when childhood's ties were intertwin'd ; 
Thau when bending low at my mother's knee, 
I worship the spirit of purity. 

It is not that beauty has lost its charm, 
Or that 3'ears could the power of love disarm ; 
"A thing of beauty" no fate could sever — 
Once flx'd, it remains "a joy forever." 

'Tis, perchance, that my locks have long grown gray — 
That the bloom from my cheek has pass'd awa}- — 
That sickness has dimm'd the hue of health, 
Or fortune wooed vainl}' the phantom wealth. 

Yet so it may be — but I will not repine 
At what is not fate, but a wise design 
Of Providence, kind in its chastening rod. 
To win from the world what is due unto God. 

"With the failing of ties that bind to earth 
Comes the advent of hopes of heavenl}^ birth : 
And a brighter spring's perennial bloom 
Uplifts the pall of the autumn tomb. 

*Not, of course, the rainbow— but that peculiar curvature of the desonding wa- 
ter, so apparent, or so easUy imagined, in the American Fall, as viewed obliquely 
from a point near the foot of the ferry stairway. 



GEORGE KENT. 69 



A MODEST CLAIM. 

'''■All lue ask is to be let alone." — jeff. davis. 

A trifling boon ! for traitor hosts 
To claim at loyal patriots' hands ; 

A meek demand, 'mid Southern boasts, 
To come with grace Irom rebel bands? 

"Let us alone !" was Arnold's cry. 
When foiled in treason's lighter deed ; 

"Let me in peace to England fly. 
Without coercion in my speed." 

"Let us alone !" was echoed wide, 
In Shay's rebellion, and in times 

Of whisky riots, that defied 

The arin of law to reach their crimes. 

"Let US alone !" was Burr's demand, 

In dark conspiracy of yore ; 
"Why interlere for foreign land, 

And guard so strict an alien shore ?" 

"Let us alone !" was Kidd's own prayer, 
When coasting wide, with pirate crew, 

And dealing death — a slight alfair — 
To every prize that came in view. 

"Let us alone ! why art thou come 
Us to torment before the time !" 

The evil spirits, elsewhere dumb. 

Could ask of Clirist, despite their crime. 

"Let us .alone !" was sounded far 

Through Heaven's vast concave, in alarm, 

By rebel angels, when at war 

Against the power of God's right arm. 

"Let us alone !" the South now claim. 
When every flap of Freedom's flag 

Points to that "deed without a name," 
That dared in dust our banner drag. 

"Let us alone !" no, never, NO ! 

AYhile Freedom stalks o'er land and sea ; 
And arms proclaim a rebel foe. 

Steeped in such hellish treacheiy ! 



70 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

ODE ; 

Fdf the Semi Centennial Celebration of the New Hampshire Historical Society, 
JMay 2-2, 1S73, the writer being then the only surviving member of the original or- 
ganization. 

History's Muse anew is waking — 
Time's half-centiuy is breaking 

O'er our old historic band ; 
Through the granite of our seeming — ■ 
Far be3-ond the poet's dreaming — • 
Light and love are ever beaming, 

Heart to heart, and hand to hand. 

Fitting seems this festive season, 
"Flow of soul and feast of reason," 

For a cordial, warm embrace ; 
No sectarian disunion, 
But enlarged and free communion, 
Concord full, and perfect union, 

Well becoming time and place. 

Though our homes, of cliff and mountain, 
Boast of no Arcadian fountain, 

Nor Italia's sunny skies. 
Our past history assures us, — 
While our hard}' clime inures us, — 
Man, the growth our soil secures us. 

Is New Hampshire's richest prize. 

With our progress, great and glorious, 
Saddened memories come o'er us, 

Calling up a hallowed band ; 
Of the founders of our order. 
All but one have crossed life's border, 
Meeting hence their just Rewarder, 

In a brighter, better land. 

As frail tendrils, intertwining, 
Force derive from their combining — 

Giving while receiving strength, — 
So ma}' heart meet heart in feeling, 
Tenderest sympathies revealing, 
Till the work of love's annealing 

Perfect be in heaven at length. 

Then, in accents sweeter, stronger — 
Then in praises louder, longer — 

Each full heart shall vocal be ; 
Deepest diapasons sounding. 



OEORQE KENT. 71 



Highest notes of joy abounding, 
Through Heaven's arches wide resounding- 
Chorus of Eternity ! 



IN MEMORY OF PRESIDENT GARFIELD. 

The Nation mourns ! no common grief 
Pervades our hearts ; Cohunbia's Chief 

Has pass'd away from earth ; 
With him have died, while yet in bloom, 
Hopes tliat mature but for the tomb, 

And joys that scarce had birth. 

Our Country mourns : her pride and choice, 
The organ of the Nation's voice, 

Is hush'd, for aye in death ; 
Kindred bewail — earth's ties are rent — 
Friends part — and through the land is sent 

A wail in every breath. 

The Nation mourns ; but not as those 
Who read the end of human woes 

In anguish yet to come : 
We sorrow not as those whose hope 
Is bounded by earth's narrow scope, 

Or buried in the tomb. 

"God and my Country 1" was his theme — 
No fiction of the poet's dream — 

But from his inmost heart ; 
To One in humble prayer he bow'd, 
For one, in weal or woe, he vow'd 

To act the patriot's part. 

How well that vow his truth redeem'd ! 
How high will ever be esteem'd 

That name to freemen dear ! 
But nobler far that "New Name" given, 
Pledge of the heritage of Heaven, 

Beyond this earthly sphere. 

Not "Conqueror" o'er his Country's foes, 
But "over sin and death he rose" — 

Be this his rapturous joy ; 
Hero no more of earthly song, 
His be it now to join the throng 

In Heaven's all-blest employ. 



72 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 



lEliia ©. Sl)ot:cis. 



This writer was a poet of Portsmouth. She was born September 14, 1796, and 
her death occured February 3, 18(33. 



ON VISITING THE SCENES OF EARLY LIFE. 

To scenes, to friends in childhood dear, 
In after-life we fondly' stray : 
But, oh, how sad these scenes appear. 
When those loved friends have passed away 1 

With pensive pleasure we renew 
Acquaintance with the dreamy past ; 
And, as the picture starts to view, 
We wish it would for ever last. 

We wander o'er the well known sward 
Where we in childhood loved to play ; 
Where mother's kiss, that best reward. 
Could lure us from our sports away ; 

With chastened hearfis bend o'er the spot 
Where friends beloved now sleep in death. 
(No: there the spirit slumbereth not: 
'Tis but their dust that rests beneath.) 

We seek a flower, — a sprig of green, 
Which we, when far away, may view ; 
A something to be touched and seen, 
That may our early days renew. 

This blade of grass, these fading leaves, 
Are all the barren sod would 3'ield : 
But to m}^ heart more dear they are 
Than gorgeous lilies of the field. 



Mrs. Thornton, whose place of nativity was in this State, was author of many 
poems. The two here printed are copied from the New Hampshire Book of Prose 
and Poetry compiled by Charles J. Fox and Samuel Osgood, and published in 1842. 



THE SUMAC TREE. 

I love the rose when I am glad, it seems so joyous too ; 
With what a glow it meets the sun, with what a scent the dew ! 
It blushes on the brow of youth, as mingling in its mirth. 
And decks the bride as though it bloomed for her alone on earth. 



ELIZA B. THORNTON. 73 

I love the columbine that grows upon the hill-top, wild ; 
It makes me dream I'm .young again, a free, a blesst^d child ; 
But youthful days and bridal ones just like the roses flee, 
And sober fancy turns from these toward the sumac tree. 

The sumac? wh}'? — its leaves are fair and beautifull}' green, 
And fringe the brilliant stem that runs a carmine thread be- 
tween. 
Its clustering fruit, a velvet cone of ro3al purple hue. 
Peers upward midst the foliage fair, in richest splendor too. 

And then the wayward fancy turns in pensive hour to thee, 
And twined with melancholy thoughts art thou, proud sumac tree, 
A deep-wrought spell of early days ; — in lone and solemn state, 
Rank grew a princely sumac tree, beside the grave-yard gate. 

Kindred and friends reposed below, and oft hath childish prayer 
Risen from my heart that I, in death, might slumber with them 

there ; 
That prayer, how vain ! yet still I love in foncy oft to be 
Lingering within that place of graves beneath the sumac tree. 



BOCHIM. 

'And they called the nameof that place Hocliini ; (weeping;) and they sacrilii-ed 
there unto the Lord." — .Judges ii. B. 

Not in our sunnv paths altars Ave raise, 
IS'ot where the roses bloom ofter we praise ; 
"Where the dark cypress boughs shadow our way, 
Where the dark willow swings — there do we pray. 

Kot when the morning light opens the flowers, 
'^oX, when in glory roll day's perfect hours ; 
When the last rosy light fadeth away, 
When the dew shuts the flower — then do we pray. 

Not when the circle is whole at the hearth, 
And bright faces gladden the home of their birth ; 
"When the turf covers or seas bear away 
Those we have watched over — then do we pray. 

Not when the heart we love turns to us, true, 
When the bright morning brings love, again new ; 
AVhen the heart trusted in turneth away, 
"When the eye answers not — then do we pray. 

Not when the light of bliss shines on the brow. 
Not when hope whispers, sweet, "ever as now ;" 
"When the heart sinketh and hope dies away, 
"When the e^e weepeth sore — then do we pray. 



74 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Beautiful, then, be our valley of tears. 
With altars the heart in its wretchedness rears ; 
Nor grieve we, nor pine, that in grief we must sliare, 
Since our valley of tears is a temple of praj-er. 



Enna jmatia Shells. 

Anna Maria Foster was born in Gloucester, Mass, in 1797 and in early life resided 
ill Windsor, Vt. She became the wife of Thomas G. Wells, who was also a poet. 
Ho lived in Amherst, and was editor of The Arnhnst Herald. In 1830 Mrs. Wells 
published a volume of poems and juvenile sketches. 



ASCUTNEY. 

In a low, white-washed cottage, overrun 

With mantling vines, and sheltered from the sun 

By rows of maple-trees, that gently moved 

Their graceful limbs to the mild breeze the}' loved, 

Oft have I lingered — idle it might seem. 

But that the heart was bus}' ; and I deem 

Those minutes not misspent, when silently 

The soul communes with nature, and is free. 

O'erlooking this low cottage, stately stood 

The huge Ascutne}' ; there, in thoughtful mood, 

I loved to hold with its gigantic form 

Deep converse — not articulate, but warm 

With feeling's noiseless eloquence, and fit 

The soul of nature with man's soul to knit. 

In various aspect, frowning on the day. 

Or touched with morning twilight's silvery gray, 

Or darkly mantled in the dusky night. 

Or by the moonbeams bathed in showers of light — 

In each, in all, a glory still was there, 

A spirit of sublimit}' ; but ne'er 

Had such a might of lovliness and power 

The mountain wrapt, as when, at midnight hour, 

It saw the tempest gather round its head. 

'Twas then an hour of joy, yet tinged with dread, 

As the deep thunder rolled from cloud to cloud, 

From all its hidden caves it cried aloud ; 

Wood, cliff, and valley, with the echo rung ; 

From rock and crag darting, with forked tongue 

The lightning glanced, a moment laying bare 

Its naked brow, then silence — darkness there ! 

And straight again the tumult, as if rocks 

Hati split, and headlong rolled. But nature mocks 

All language : these are scenes I ne'er again 



DANIEL DANA TAPPAN. 75 

Ma}' look upon — but precious thoughts remain 

On memor3''s page ; and ever in lu}' heart, 

Amid all other claims, that mountain hath a part. 



Banicl ©ana ^appan. 

Daniel D. Tappan, a hrothcr of William B. Tappan, was born in Newbur\'port, 
Mass., October -20, 1798. His parents removed to Portsmouth so soon after his 
birth that liis earliest distinct recolleetions are connected Avith Portsmouth, where 
his father died in 1806. He is an alumnus of Bo\vdoin Collejie, of the class of 1822. 
He studied theolo.sy at New Haven. C'onn., and wa.s onlaiiied as an evangelist in 
18-20, and installed as pastor of aU-luirch in Alfred, ]Maine; afterwards ;ind later at 
East Alarshtield, Mass. He has alsci suiiplied cluirclies for lnniicr or sliorler terms, 
as at Farmington, Franklin and Wakt^iield in tliis ."^tate; IJiddelord. Winthrop and 
AVeld in Maine. He resides at Weld, still preacliiug at times, but has no regular 
pastoral charge. 



HYMN 

For the dedication of a house of worship, in Farmington, N. H. in 1870. 

Where Jesus taught, and toiled, and died, 

Once shone in gold the house of God ; 
Tliere, thrice eacli year, the Hebrews hied 

With gifts, obedient to his word. 

But Zion now is everywhere, 

H" hearts to pray and praise are found ; 

Gentile and Jew maj- blend their prayer ; 
Each temple site is holy ground. 

And so this fane we here devote 

To Him whom they of old adored ; 
To share liis smiles, while we promote 

The honor of our common Lord. 

Shed down, O Spirit, on our souls. 

Sweet influence from tlij- blest abode. 
That love whicli liallows, guides, controls, 

And fits us here to dwell with God. 



HYMN TO JESUS. 

To sing of Jesus' love 

With hearts encluiined b}- sense, 
And e3"es incased in films of sin, 

Is but a vile pretense. 

O, were these orbs ilhimed, 

And sundered were these chains. 

How would our glorious Lord be loved, 
And praised in tilting strains. 



76 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 



The secret place of tears 

Might well pour forth a flood, 

At thought of our ingratitude 
To the redeeming God. 

We lay our spirits low, 

O Christ, before thy throne ; 

And humbl}^ crave a gift of love 
Responsive to thy own. 

Then, with exultant feet, 

We'll trace the heavenl}' road ; 

Hasting, with eager joy, to meet 
Our waiting, gracious Lord. 

HYMN TO THE REDEEMER. 

My Saviour ! 'Tis of thee. 
Friend of all friends to me. 

Of thee I sing ; 
The music of thy name 
Should ransomed souls inflame. 
While hymning their acclaim 

To Zion's King. 

But none can speak thy worth, 
Nor all the tongues of earth 

Thy love portray ; — 
The work of praise begun 
By us, beneath the sun. 
Must through the cycles run 

Of endless day. 

Dim is our brightest view. 
Thou hoi}', just and true, 

Saviour, of thee, 
O, clarify our sight, 
And pour celestial light 
Upon our native night, 

That we may see. 

Then shall the notes we rear, 
E'en while we sojourn here. 

Supernal be : 
Fitting our souls to blend 
With songs that never end. 
And teach us how to spend 

Eternity. 



DANIEL DANA TAPPAN. 77 

AULD LANG SYNE. 

Should by -gone manners be forgot, 

And never brought to min'. 
The ways of true and simple life, 

The days of Auld Lang Sjne ? 

Those times that tried the boldest souls, 

When, led by hand divine, 
Our pilgrim sires here sought a home ; 

Tliose days of Auld Lang Syne ? 

Their iron graces, — hearts of oak, — 

Men made for work, — not shine, — 
The}' left their name ; a rich bequest, — 

Those men of Auld Lang Syne. 

And others, since, their steps have tried, 

And influence left benign. 
Whose noble deeds well prove their claim, 

As sons of Auld Lang Syne. 

Long cherish we their glorious names, 

Nor, yet, the hope resign. 
That years to come shall emulate 

The virtues of Lang S^'ue. 



LANDING OF THE PILGRIMS. 

Vo^'agers ! whence your last remove ? 

Win* approach this sterile shore? 
Stranger ! leaving lands we love. 

Came we here our God to adore. 

Pilgrims ! terrors throng 3'our way ; 

Foes beset, on either hand ! 
Stranger ! nothing can dismay 

Hearts that seek this barren strand. 

Pilgrims ! dauntless though 3-e seem,— 
Few and feeble yet ye are : 

Stranger, they who trust in Him 
Never of their cause despair. 

Freedom's banner here shall wave ; 

Israel's helper here be known ; 
Myriads, o'er our peaceful grave, 

Laud the work His hand hath done. 



POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 



iStrna i^astings Silbet. 

Mrs. Silver, a daughter of Moses Hastings and Miriam Tyler, was born in ITop- 
kinton May 30, 1798. She married Kev. Abiel Silver, also of Hopkiuton, and after 
living live years la the State of New York near the St. Lawrence, they removed to 
Michigan, where they dwelt many years. On (their return from the West Mr. Sil- 
ver preached some years in several of the eastern cities, and their last place of resi- 
dence was at Roxbury, or Boston Highlands, where Mr. Silver established a church 
called the "New Jerusalem Church of Boston Highlands." Mr. Silver died iu 
March, 1881. Mrs. Silver still resides in Roxbury, Mass. 



CHRISTMAS. 

Wonder of wonders ! from the eternal throne 
Divine Shekinah in the manger shone ! 
Jehovah Jesus, in that lovely child, 
Put on humanit}', though undefiled. 
Did earth arise and mortals bend the knee 
As, "bowed the heavens," with His divinit}-? 
Alas, the wise men only, from afar. 
Brought triple gifts and saw the wondrous star. 
The good old Simeon waiting for release 
Saw His salvation and departs in peace. 
And Anna, prophesying, knew the Lord 
And in this temple recognised "the Word". 
The watchful shepherds, tending flocks hy night. 
Saw heaven opened and beheld the light. 
"Glory to God" resounded from the skies 
And faint hosannas from the earth arise ; 
A heavenly' influx came down from above 
And all creation felt a thrill of love ; 
Though, turned to hatred In- the wilful throng, 
Ages have sung and still repeat the song ; 
Await thy second coming when the sun 
With seven-fold brightness its career shall run, 
When sin shall cease and carnage, fire and sword 
Shall flee before the power of Th}^ Word, 
And the great glory of Th}^ coming prove 
That AVisdom's brightness is inscribed with Love, 
The watchmen herald, that the ushered morn, 
l^recedes the day when nations shall be born, 
Th}' children in the vale send up the cry 
O "Come Lord Jesus," raise our thoughts on high. 
As angels sang at the Redeemer's birth 
"Glory to God," good will, and peace on earth ; 
May we in humbler strains, an anthem sing 
To Him who comes in clouds, of kings the King, 
Opening for us the everlasting doors 
Through which "this King of glory" radiance pours, 



EDNA EASTINGS SIL VER. 79 

Transfiguring His "Word, that men ma}- view 
His kingdom coming, making all things new. 



ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD. 

Silent and pure a gentle dew-drop fell, 
With gathered moisture, in a fragrant dell. 
A flower, most grateful for the blessing given, 
Sends up its incense towards the spangled heaven. 
Soon morning comes — the sun's bright ra3's descend 
And hues prismatic M'ith the dew-drop blend ; 
In beauty flower, globe, sunlight, all combine 
To point beholders to a power divine. 
But exhalations rise ; — the crystal boon 
Has gilded earth and disappeared ere noon. 
Thus a sweet babe with health and beauty blest 
Came a rich treasure — to affection's breast. 
The parents, grateful for the immortal loan. 
Sent prayers and praises to "our Father's" thrOne. 
A sphere of innocence the blessing crowned 
And hope's bright halo gilds the circle round ; 
And while they kiss the fond one and rejoice 
An angel whispers in a still small voice — 
"Come hither child ; in love thou first wast given ; 
Unchanging Love now calls thee home to heaven." 



LINES. 



Go ask the owl, weak man, to view the sun ; 

Go ask the torpid sloth a race to run ; 

Go ask the mole to lecture thee on light ; 

Go ask the bat to expatiate on sight 

Go ask the deaf the properties of sound. 

But ask not earth where th}' true joys are found. 

For heaven alone can fill the acliing void. 

And teach thee where to choose and what avoid. 

His light alone dispels the sinner's gloom, 

His light alone the dungeon can illume, 

Teach woe to smile, extract atfliction's dart, 

"Bind up the broken, heal the wounded heart," 

Relieve the heavy-laden of his load, 

And bring estranged afliections home to God. 



NATURE. 
Chaste as Diana is she whom I love, 
Free from deceit as the spirits above, 



80 POETS OF NEW HAMPSniRE. 



Fair, and as mild as sweet Cynthia's light, 

Pure as a dew-drop refreshing the night, 

Soothing her spell as she acts on the heart. 

Stealthily there she engrosses a part ; 

And though mild is her sway and her language so sweet. 

Yet envious rivals ne'er bow at her feet ! 

But beautiful, pure and sincere though she be, 

So chaste and so rare, yet she smiles upon me. 

Kin^lred and friends would you know this fair dame? 

God is her Maker, and Nature her name. 



MEMORY. 

See Memory o'er spoils in vigil's pore, 
AVon from old Time, a consecrated store. 
The key of science from her belt depends ; 
Before her lie engravings of her friends. 
Her magic glass, to nature ever true, 
Brings bright phantasmas of the past to view. 
O'er which the twilight of departed years 
Steals with a witcher^^ that but endears. 
She guides the aged pilgrim joyful back 
O'er scenes of youth in talismanic track ; 
Friend after friend she brings before his eye, 
Till the wrapt soul is lost in ecstacy. 



THE MIDNIGHT KNELL, 

On the 19th of September, 1881, when President Garfield passed into ; 
higher state of existence. 

We heard the midnight bells of gloom 
That oft precede the opening tomb, 
And hearts of millions felt the blow 
That laid our country's Chief so low. 
But not for him — the good, the wise — 
Those tolling bells gave warning cries, 
But to our country — part3'-torn — 
Now humbled, penitent, and lorn ; 
For goodness, justice, truth, and love 
Are active in the world above. 
The pearly gates were opened wide 
B}' angels on the other side. 
And saints with jo}' received him home 
When Heaven in mere}' bade him "Come." 
'Tis said that fiercest beast of prey 
Will quail before the eye's keen ray : 



SARAH SMITH. 81 



So the vile culprit could not face 
The high resolve that power and place 
Be given to patriots, firm and sound, 
But skulked behind and gave the wound. 
Still justice reigns, and Heaven's decree, 
That earth from miscreants shall be free, 
Will daunt the weak and awe the strong 
Till right shall triumph over wrong. 
God of the nations, will that knell 
Touch vain aspirants ? — who can tell — 
Till North and South, and East and West, 
Shall join in union and be blest ? 
Then noble men with patriot zeal will stand 
Bulwarks of strength within our happy land, 
And Freedom's banner, like the bow in heaven, 
Prove a sure covenant with earth, — God-given. 



Saral) Smiti). 

This very young writer was boru in H*nover In 1799, and died In that town, Ausr. 
17, mi. 



THE WHITE CLOVER. 

There is a little perfumed flower 

That well might grace the loveliest bower, 

Yet poet never deigned to sing 

Of such an humble, rustic thing ; 

Nor is it strange, for it can show 

Scared}- one tint of Iris' bow. 

Nature, perchance, in careless hour. 

With pencil dry might paint the flower, 

Yet instant blushed her fault to see, 

So gave it double fragrancy. 

Rich recompense for aught denied, 

Who would not homely garb abide, 

If gentlest soul were breathing there 

Blessings throughout its little sphere? 

Sweet flower ! the lesson thou hast taught 

Shall check each proud, ambitious thought ; 

Teach me internal worth to prize, 

Though found in lowliest, rudest guise ! 



^t)cimas i^Togstoell Slpt)am. 

Thomas C. Upham, LL. D. was born in DeerfleUi, In 1799. He graduated at 
Dartmouth College in 1818, and became in IS-.T), a Congregational minister. Soon 
afterward.s he was made profesaor of mental and moral philosophy in Bowdoin 
College, ilo travelled In Europe, Kgypt, and Palestine, and waa an author of nu- 
merous books. He died in 18?2. 



82 P0ET8 OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 



THE SPIRITUAL TEMPLE. 

The Temple, once that brightl}' shone 
On proud Moriah's rocky brow ; 

Not there doth God erect his throne, 
Nor build his place of beauty now. 

The sunbeam of the orient day 

Saw nought on earth more bright and fair ; 
But desolation swept away. 

And left no form of glory there. 

But God, who rear'd that chisel'd stone. 
Now builds upon a higher plan ; 

And rears the columns of his throne, 
His Temple — in the heart of man. 

Oh man, oh woman ! Know it well. 
Nor seek elsewhere His place to find. 

That God doth in this Temple dwell. 
The Temple of the holy mind ! 



SONG OF THE PILGRIMS. 

Written for the second Centennial Celebration at Dover, 1823. 

The breeze has swelled the whitening sail. 
The blue waves curl beneath the gale, 
And, bounding with the wave and wind, 
We leave Old England's shores behind : 
Leave behind our native shore. 
Homes, and all we loved before. 

The deep maj' dash, the winds may blow, 

The storm spread out its wings of woe, 

The sailors' e3'es can see a shroud 

Hung in the folds of every cloud ; 
Still, as long as life shall last. 
From that shore we'll speed us fast. 

For we would rather never be, 
Than dwell where mind cannot be free, 
But bows beneath a despot's rod. 
Even where it seeks to worship God. 

Blasts of heaven, onward sweep ! 

Bear us o'er the troubled deep ! 

O see what wonders meet our eyes ! 
Another land and other skies ! 
Columbian hills have met our view ! 



THOMAS C. UPEAM. «;i 



Adieu ! Old England's shores adieu ! 
Here at length our feet shall rest, 
Hearts be free, and homes be blest. 

As long as 3'onder firs shall spread 
Their green arms o'er the mountain's head ; 
As long as ^-onder cliffs shall stand. 
Where join the ocean and the land, 

Shall those cliffs and mountains be 

Proud retreats for liberty. 

Now to the King of kings we'll raise 
The pa?an loud of sacred praise ; 
More loud than sounds the swelling breeze, 
More loud than speak the rolling seas ! 

Happier lands have met our view ! 

England's shores, adieu ! adieu ! 



THE INWARD CHRIST. 

No more thou walkest, as of old. 
On Judah's hills and mountains cold ; 
With damp and stormy nights, that shed 
Their dew and tempests on Thy head ; 
And rocks and caverns for Thy bed. 

The weary, fainting steps that knew 

The rock, the cave, the midnight dew. 

How great the change ! now leave their trace 

In souls renewed, in hearts of grace, 

In life's interior dwelling-place. 

No more Thou walkest, as of old, 
On Judah's hills and mountains cold ; 
In holy hearts are gardens fair, 
Aiid gentle streams, and balmj- air ; 
And flowers, and golden skies are there. 



THE LIVING FOUNTAIN. 

I hear the tinkling camel's bell 

Beneath the shade of Ebal's mount. 

And men and beast, at Jacob's well, 
Bow down to taste the sacred fount. 

Samaria's daughter too doth share 

The draught that earthly thirst can quell ; 

But who is this that meets her there? 
What voice is this at Jacob's well? 



H4 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 



"Ho ! ask of me, and I will give, 
From my own life, thy life's supply ; 

I am the fount ! drink, drink and live ; 
No more to thirst, no more to die !" 

Strange, m3'stic words, but words of heaven 
And they who drink to-day, as then, 

To them shall inward life be given ; 
Their souls shall never thirst again I 



THE GREATNESS OF LOVE. 

Go, count the sands that form the earth, 
Go, count the drops that make the sea ; 

Go, count the stars of heavenly birth, 
And tell me what their numbers be ; 
And thou shalt know love's mystery. 

No measurement hath yet been found. 
No lines nor numbers, that can keep 

The sum of its eternal round. 

The plummet of its endless deep, 
Or hights, to which its glories sweep. 

Yes, measure love, when thou canst tell 
The lands, where seraphs have not trod, 

The hights of heaven, the depths of hell, 
And laid thy finite measuring-rod, 
On the infinitude of God. 



SILENCE UNDER TRIALS. 

When words and acts untrue, unkind, 
Against thy life like arrows fly, 

Receive them with a patient mind, 
Seek no revenge, make no reply. 

O holy silence ! 'tis the shield 

More strong than warrior's twisted mail ; 
A hidden strength, a might concealed, 

Which worldly shafts in vain assail. 

He who is silent in his cause 

Hath left that cause to heavenly arms. 
And Heaven's eternal aid and laws 

Are swift to ward the threatening harms. 

God is our great protecting power ; 

Be still, the Great Defender moves ; 
He watches well the dangerous hour, 

Nor fails to save the child he loves. 



OLIVER WILLIAM BOURNE PEABODY. 85 

O^liber 512Eil(iam 13ourne ^eabotrg. 

The twin brothers, Oliver and 'William, were born in Exeter, July 9, 1799. They 
graduated at Harvard College in 1810. Oliver studied law at Cambridge, and 
jiractised in his native town eleven years. He went to Bo.ston in 18'>6, and en- 
gaged in Journalism. In 184.") he turned his attention to theology, and berame a 
preacher of the Unitarian denomination in Burlington, Vermont, where he dleci in 
1S48. In 182.3 he delivered a poem at Harvard College, and not long afterwards 
another foem at the Centennial anniversary of the settlement of Portsmouth. 



LINES. 

who that has gazed, in the stillness of even, 
On the fast-fading hues of the west, 

Has seen not afar, in the bosom of heaven, 

Some bright little mansion of rest. 
And mourned that the path to a region so fair 

vShould be shrouded with sadness and tears ; 
That the night-winds of sorrow, misfortune and care, 
Should sweep from the deep rolling waves of despair, 

To darken this cold world of tears? 

And who that has gazed has not longed for the hour 

When misfortune forever shall cease ; 
And hope, like the rainbow, unfold through the shower 

Her bright written promise of peace ! 
And 0, if the rainbow of promise may sliine 

On the last scene of life's wintry gloom. 
Mar its light in the moment of parting be mine ; 

1 ask but one ray from a source so divine, 
To brighten the vale of the tomb. 



TOO EARLY LOST. 

Too lovely and too earh' lost ! 

My memor}' clings to thee. 
For thou wast once 1113' guiding star 

Amid the treacherous sea ; 
But doubly cold and cheerless now. 

The wave too dark before, 
Since eveiy beacon light is quenched 

Along the midnight shore. 

I saw thee first, when hope arose 

On youth's triumphant wing. 
And thou wast lovelier than the light 

Of earlv dawning spring. 
Wiio then could dream that health and joy 

"Would e'er desert the brow 
So bright with varying lustre once, 

So chill and changeless now? 



86 POETS OF NEW EAMPSHIRE. 

That brow ! how proudly o'er it then 

Thy kingly beauty hung, 
When wit, or eloquence, or mirth, 

Came burning from the tongue ! 
Or when upon that glowing cheek 

The kindling smile was spread, 
Or tears to thine own woes denied, 

For others' griefs were shed ! 

Thy mind, it ever was the home 

Of high and holy thought ; 
Th}' life, an emblem of pure thoughts, 

Thy pure example taught ; 
When blended in thine eye of light, 

As from a royal throne, 
Kindness, and peace, and virtue, there 

In mingled radiance shone. 

One evening, when the autumn dew 

Upon the hills was shed. 
And Hesperus, far down the west. 

His starry host had led. 
Thou saidcst, how sadly and how soft, 

To that prophetic eye. 
Visions of darkness and decline 

And early death were nigh. 

It was a voice from other worlds. 

Which none beside might hear. 
Like the night breeze's plaintive lyre. 

Breathed faintly on the ear ; 
It was the warning kindly given 

When blessed spirits come 
From their bright paradise above, 

To call a sister home. 

How sadl}^ on my spirit then 

That fatal warning fell ! 
But O, the dark reality 

Another voice may tell ; 
The quick decline — the parting sigh — 

The slowly moving bier — 
The lifted sod — the sculptured stone — 

The unavailing tear. 

The amaranth flowers, that bloom in heaven. 

Entwine thy temples now ; 
The crown that shines immortally 



OLIVER WILLIAM BOURNE PEABODY. 87 

Is beaming on thy brow ; 
The seraphs round the burning throne 

Have borne thee to th\' rest, 
To dwell among the saints on high, 

Companions of the blest. 

The sun hath set in folded clouds, 

It's twilight raj's are gone, 
And gathered in the shades of night, 

The storm is rolling on. 
Alas ! how ill that bursting storm 

The fainting spirit braves. 
When the}', the lovel}' and the lost, 

Are gone to early graves. 



STANZAS. 

I love the memory of that hour 

When first in 3outh I found thee ; 
For infant beaut}- gently threw 

A morning freshness round thee ; 
A single star was rising there. 

With mild and lovely motion ; 
And scarce the zeph3-r's gentle breath 

Went o'er the sleeping ocean. 

I love the memory of that hour — 

It wakes a pensive feeling. 
As when within the winding shell 

The pla3'ful winds are stealing ; 
It tells my heart of those bright years, 

Ere hope went down in sorrow, 
When all the joys of yesterday' 

Were painted on to-morrow. 

Where art thou now ? Thy once loved flowers 

Their j'ellow leaves are twining, 
And bright and beautiful again 

The single star is shining. 
But where art thou ? The bended grass 

A dewy stone discloses. 
And love's light footsteps print the ground 

Where all ni}- peace reposes. 

Farewell ! My tears were not for thee ; 

'Twere weakness to deplore thee. 
Or vainl}' mourn thine absence here, 

While angels half adore thee. 



88 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Thy days were few and quickly told ; 

Thy short and mournful story 
Hath ended like the morning star, 

That melts in deeper glory. 

An account of the birth and education of W. B. O. Peabody has been given in 
connection with that of his twin-brother Oliver. Immediately after graduation at 
Harvard he studied theology, and when ordained, in 1820, he became pastor of the 
Unitarian church in Springfield, Mass., and it was there that iiis whole ministerial 
life was passed. He died May 28, 1847. He was the author of several occasional 
poems, and a volume of his sermons was published after his death. 



THE AUTUMN EVENING. 

Behold the western evening light ! 

It melts in deepening gloom ; 
So calmlj^ Christians sink awa}', 

Descending to the tomb. 

The winds breathe low ; the withering leaf 
Scarce whispers from the tree ; 

So gentl}' flows the parting breath, 
When good men cease to be. 

How beautiful on all the hills 

The crimson light is shed ! 
'Tis like the peace the Christian gives 

To mourners round his bed. 

How mildlj- on the wandering cloud 

The sunset beam is cast ! 
'Tis like the memory left behind 

When loved ones breathe their last. 

And now, above the dews of night, 

The yellow star appears ; 
So faith springs in the heart of those 

Whose eyes are bathed in tears. 

But soon the morning's happier light 

Its glory shall restore, 
And ej^elids that are sealed in death 

Shall wake to close no more. 



THE RISING MOON. 

The moon is up ! How calm and slow 
She wheels above the hill ! 



WILLIAM BOURNE OLIVER PEABODY. h\) 

The weary winds forget to blow, 
And all the world lies still. 

The wa3--worn travellers, with delight, 

The rising brightness see, 
Revealing all the paths and plains. 

And gilding every tree. 

It glistens where the hurrying stream 

Its little ripple leaves ; 
It falls upon the forest shade. 

And sparkles on the leaves. 

So once, on Judah's evening hills. 

The heavenly lustre spread ; 
The gospel sounded from the blaze, 

And shepherds gazed with dread. 

And still that light upon the world 

Its guiding splendor throws ; 
Bright in the opening hours of life. 

But brighter at the close. 

The waning moon, in time, shall fail 

To walk the midnight skies ; 
But God hath kindled this bright light 

With fire that never dies. 



THE DEATH OF AN INFANT. 

And this is death, how cold and still, 

And yet how lovel)' it appears ; 
Too cold to let the gazer smile. 

But far too beautiful for tears. 
The sparkling eye no more is bright. 

The cheek hath lost its roselike red ; 
And 3'et it is with strange delight 

I stand and gaze upon the dead. 

But when I see the fair wide brow, 

Half shaded by the silken hair. 
That never looked so fair as now, 

When life and health were laughing there, 
I wonder not that grief should swell 

So wildl}' upward in the brews'", 
And that strong passion once rebel 

That need not, cannot be suppressed. 



90 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 



I wonder not that parents' ej^es 

In gazing thus grow cold and dim, 
That burning tears and aching sighs 

Are blended with the funeral h3'mn ; 
The spirit hath an earthly part, 

That weeps when earthly pleasure flies. 
And heaven would scorn the frozen heart 

That melts not when the infant dies. 

And yet why mourn? that deep repose 

Shall nevermore be broke by pain ; 
Those lips no more in sighs unclose, 

Those eyes shall never weep again. 
For think not that the blushing flower 

Shall wither in the church-yard sod : 
'Twas made to gild an angel's bower 

Within the paradise of God. 

Once more I gaze, and swift and far 

The clouds of death in sorrow fly : 
I see thee like a new-born star 

Move up thy pathway in the sky ; 
The star hath rays serene and bright, 

But cold and pale compared with thine ; 
For thy orb shines with heavenly light, 

With beams unfailing and divine. 

Then let the burdened heart be free. 

The tears of sorrow all be shed, 
And parents calmly bend to see 

The mournful beauty of the dead ; 
Thrice happy, that their infant bears 

To heaven no darkening stains of sin, 
And only breathed life's morning airs 

Before its evening storms begin. 

Farewell ! I shall not soon forget, — 

Although thy heart hath ceased to beat, 
My memory warmly treasures yet 

Thy features calm and mildly sweet ; 
But no, that look is not the last ; 

We yet may meet where seraphs dwell, 
Where love no more deplores the past. 

Nor breathes that withering word, Farewell ! 



MONADNOC. 

Upon the far-off" mountain's brow 
The angry storm has ceased to beat. 



WIL LI A M BO UBNE OLIVER PEABOD Y. y i 

And broken clouds are gathering now, 

In lowly reverence round his feet. 
1 saw their dark and crowded bands 

On his firm head in wrath descending, 
But there once more redeemed he stands, 

And heaven's clear arch is o'er him bending. 

I've seen him when the rising sun 

Shone like a watch-fire on the height ; 
I've seen him when the da}' was done, 

Bathed in the evening's crimson light ! 
I've seen him in the midnight hour, 

When all the world beneath were sleeping, 
Like some lone sentry in his tower. 

His patient watch in silence keeping. 

And there, as ever, steep and clear, 

That pyramid of nature springs ! 
He owns no rival turret near. 

No sovereign but the King of kings. 
"While many a nation hath passed by. 

And many an age, unknown in stor^', 
His walls and battlements on high 

He rears, in melancholy glory. 

And let a world of human pride. 

With all its grandeur, melt awa}-, 
And spread around his rock\' side 

The broken fragments of decay. 
Serene his hoary head will tower, 

Untroubled by one thought of sorrow ; 
He numbers not the weary hour. 

He welcomes not nor fears to-morrow. 

Farewell ! I go my distant way* 

Perhaps, not far in future years. 
The eyes that glow with smiles to-da}', 

May gaze upon thee, dim with tears. 
Then let me learn from thee to rise. 

All time and chance and change defying ; 
Still pointing upward to the skies, 

And on the inward strength relying. 

If life before my weaiy eye 

Grows fearful as an angr}' sea. 
Thy memory shall suppress the sigh 

For that which never more can be. 



92 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Inspiring all within the heart 

With firm resolve and strong endeavor, 

To act a brave and faithful part, 

Till life's short warfare ends forever. 



(JTalei) Stark. 

Caleb Stark was the elflest son of Major Caleb Stark. He inherited the old Stark 
mansion and surrounding estate at Dunbarton, and was a writer of repute, l)eing 
the author of a valuable memoir of his father and grandfather. He died in 1S6."). 



THE BATTLE OF LUNDY'S LANE. 

In other da^'s j'on fatal hill 

Glittered with arms and waved with plumes. 
When the sad sunset on their steel 

Flashed its last splendors ; even's glooms 
Rang with the bugle's martial breath 
That called the brave to deeds of death. 

Then the dismal Qxy of slaughter 

Broke on midnight's slumbering hour ; 
And the parched ground drank blood like water, 

As beneath the deadly- shower 
Of musket and artillery, 
With motto calm yet bold, "I'll try," 

The bristling ranks move on. 
Mid deafening thunder, sulphurous flash. 
And shouts, and groans, and forces crash. 
Till hark ! the sharp, clear bayonet's clash, 

Tells that the work is done. 

There deeds of deathless praise proclaim. 
How rolled war's tide when Ripley's name 

Swelled the wild shout of victory ; 
And dauntless Miller and McNeil 
Led foremost, in the strife of steel, 

The flower of northern chivalr}' ; 
While Scott from British brows then tore 
The laurels dyed in Gallic gore ! 

But these terrific scenes are past ; 
The peasants' slumbers, the wild blast 

Alone shall break them. 
And those proud bannered hosts are gone, 
Where the shrill trumpet's charging tone 

No more ma}' wake them. 



BENJAMIN BBOWN FBENCH. 93 

Time in his flight has swept away 

Each vestige of the battle fray. 

Save that the traveller views around 

The shattered oak — the grass-grown mound 

That shrines a hero's ashes ! 
Peace to the brave ! around their stone 
Shall Freedom twine her ros}- wreath, 
And, though with moss of years o'ergrown, 
Fame shall applaud their glorious death, 

Long as Niagara dashes ! 



Benjamin Uroton J^rcncf). 

B. B. French was born in Chester in 1800. He studied law with his father, and 
waa admitted to the bar in 1825, after wliich he practised In Hooksett and in Sutton. 
He went to Newport in 1827, and became editor and a proprietor of the N. H. Spec- 
tntor. In 1834 he removed to the city of Washington. He was assistant clerk of 
the U. S. House of Representatives In 1833, and clerk in 1845. He died Aug. 12, 1870. 



THE MAIDEN AT CHURCH. 

Susgested by seeing a maldeu-lady at church, whom the autlior has seen there 
ever since he can remember. 

There doth she sit — that same old girl 

Whom I in bo3hood knew ; 
She seems a fixture to the church, 

In that old jail-like pew ! 

Once she was young — a blooming Miss, 

So do the aged say ; 
Though e'en in youth, I think she must 

Have had an old like way. 

How prim, and starched, and kind she looks, 

And so devout and staid ! 
I wonder some old bachelor 

Don't wed that good old maid ! 

She does not look so very old. 

Though years and years are b}' 
Since any younger she has seemed. 

E'en to ni}' boyhood's eye. 

That old straw bonnet she has on, 

Tied with that bow of blue, 
Seems not to feel Time's cankering hand, 

'Tis ''near as good as new." 

That old silk gown — the square-toed shoes, 
Those gloves — that buckle's gleam ; 



94 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

That silver hvxMe at her waist, 
To me, Hke old friends seem. 

Live on, live on, and may the years 
Touch lightl}^ on thy brow ; 

As I beheld thee in m}^ 3'outh, 
And as I see thee now ; 

May I, when age its furrows deep , 
Have ploughed upon raj- cheek, 

Behold thee in that pew, unchanged, 
So prim, so mild, so meek ! 



THOUGHTS ON VISITING THE PLACE OF MY 
NATIVITY. 

The silver threads that mingle with 

The auburn on my brow. 
Warn me that Time's relentless hand 

Is busy with me now ; 
But here, among my native hills, 

Tlie thoughts of age depart, 
And all the glow of sunny j'outh 

Comes bounding through ray lieart. 

Can I be old ? There stands the tree 

From which, but 3'esterday, 
This very hand, in clusters bright, 

Bore the ripe fruit away ; 
And is not that my father's house 

Which stands upon the hill ? 
And there, upon the brawling stream, 

Clatters the busy mill. 

"You are not old" — thus Fancy said, , 

As in a dream-like mood. 
Gazing on all these youthful scenes, 

Within the vale I stood. 
I turned — delusive Fancy fled — 

A monitress to me, 
Stern and sincere Heaven's earth-born child, 

Stood grave Reality. 
Clothed in the sacred garb of Truth, 

With mourning on her brow. 
She whispered sadly in mine ear, 

"Where is that father now? 
And where are many, once beloved, 



BENJAMIN BRO WN FRENCH. 95 



Who roved, 'mid summer's bloom, 
These dells with us, all life and J03' ? 

Alas, within the tomb ! 
And, ah, that 'j-esterday' of thine! 

Years — years have passed away, 
And what a train of vast events 

Divides it from to-day ! 
Those hands that bore the ripened fruit 

Were young and tiny then. 
While now with thews and sinews strong, 

They cope their wa}^ with men ; 
The mill that clatters by the stream 

B}' man has been renewed. 
Nought, save the tree, the rock, the hill, 

Stand now as then they stood 1" 

A troop of children passed me by 

In all their noisy glee. 
And voices shouted, loud and clear, 

Familiar names to me — 
The names of those whom once I knew — 

The absent and the dead, 
Another generation trod 

The paths I used to tread. 

Though strangers dwell within the halls 

Wliere once my fathers dwelt. 
Though strangers at the altar kneel, 

Where once my father knelt. 
The jilace remains where boyhood's years 

So smoothl}' o'er me rolled. 
And, standing here, I almost deem 

Years cannot make me old ! 



SONG FOR THE ATLANTIC CABLE CELEBRATION', 

At Appledore Island, Isle of Shoals, Thursday, Aug. 19, ISSS. 

The outside world is boiling o'er 

With all the joy it's able ? 
Why should not ice of Appledore 

Just celebrate ''The Cable?" 
And ladies dear, j'ou'U join, we know. 

This glorious celebration. 
For, how the sparks will come and go 

From Nation unto Nation ! 



96 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Yankee doodle, keep it down, 
The cord beneath the deep, sir. 

Two worlds are joined. To bless th' event 
Our revels we will keep, sir. 

Time was when ghosts were sent to dwell 

In the bottom of the sea, sir, 
By praj-er and candle, book and bell, 

No further plague to be, sir. 
But now the3''ve laid a spirit there — 

A mighty spirit, too, sir. 
Whom neither book, nor bell, nor prayer 

Can silence, or can do, sir. 

Yankee doodle, keep it down, etc. 

And spirits oft of evil name, 

Have entered into man, sir. 
Till "half seas over" he became 

Before his voyage began, sir — 
But now they'll whisper in his ear 

By lightning, without thunder — 
And all the spirits he shall hear 

Shall come from whole seas under ! 
Yankee doodle, etc. 

No more the lagging ship we'll greet — 

The fifteen, twenty miler — 
We'll have the news ere she can heat 

The water in her boiler ! 
When Vic sits down to take her tea, 

Or Jeemes sits down to dine, sir, 
Ere they get up, beneath the sea 

They'll hob nob o'er their wine, sir ! 
Yankee doodle, etc. 

John Bull can hardly damn Jiis eyes 

Or Jonathan say darn it, 
Before, by tell-tale sprite advice, 

The other side shall lam it ! 
As one, two nations shall increase. 

Though ocean roll between 'em — 
The Cable — a bright bond of peace — 

From fighting e'er shall screen 'em. 
Yankee doodle, etc. 

Then bless the wire where now it lies, 

The ocean bed along, sir — 
Earth's greatest hope, the sea's great prize — 

Bless it in prayer and song, sir ! 



BENJAMIN BROWN FRENCH. 97 

Bless it, and pray it may grow old, 

For now 'tis in its 3'outh, sir — 
"When years pass on, b}' centuries told, 

May it lie to tell the truth, sir ! 
Yankee doodle, etc. 

Now in old Father Neptune's care, 

As well as we are able, 
"We place, with shouts of joy and prayer, ^ 

The Atlantic Ocean Cable ! 
And now three cheers for Appledore, 

Where ocean round us rolls, sir — 
For the ladies fair, one Tiger more ! 

God bless the Isles of Shoals, sir ! 
Yankee doodle, etc. 



HYMN COMPOSED AT GETTYSBURG. 

'Tis holy ground — 
This spot, where, in their graves, 
We place our country's braves, 
"Who fell in Freedom's hoi}' cause, 
Fighting for liberties and laws ; 

Let tears abound. 

Here let them rest ; 
And summer's heat and winter's cold 
Shall glow and freeze above this mould — 
A thousand j'ears shall pass awa}' — 
A nation still shall mourn this claj', 

"Which now is blest. 

Here where they fell. 
Oft shall the widow's tears be shed, 
Oft shall fond parents mourn their dead. 
The orphan here shall kneel and weep, 
And maidens, where their lovers sleep, 

Their woes shall tell. 

Great God in Heaven ! 
Shall all this sacred blood be shed ? 
Shall we thus mourn our glorious dead ? 
Oh, shall the end be wrath and woe ; 
The knell of Freedom's overthrow, 

A country riven ? 

It will not be ! 
"We trust, O God ! thy gracious power 
To aid us in our darkest hour. 



98 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. Z 

This be our pra^-er — "0 Father ! save 
A people's freedom from its grave. 
All praise to Thee !" 



THE LAST WORDS OF JOHN BROWN. 

When brave old John Brown, whose fame is now immortal, stood upon the gal- 
lows, with the cap drawn over his eyes, a handkerchief was tendered to him, which 
he was told to drop when he was ready. He indignantly refused it, saying sternly : 
"John Brown is always ready — Virginia drops the handkerchief!" 

A stern, brave man of iron nerve 

Stood on the gallows tree, 
A martjT to the noble thought 

That all mankind are free ; 
For threescore 3'ears that thought had burned 

Into his soul, so brave. 
Till he believed it came from God 

That he should free the slave ! 
He passed through trouble, grief, and woe, 

No murmuring word he spoke ; 
Stern in his purpose — firm he stood, 

As stands the mountain oak ; 
Nor friend nor foe could move his soul 

To swerve from his intent ; 
The time, he thought, at last had come — 

Bold to his work he went ! 
Alas ! that arm, though nerved with Truth, 

Essayed too great a deed. 
It bravely struck and boldly too — 

It battled but to bleed ! 
The ??ian, borne down and overcome, 

Was forced at last to yield ; 
But the brave soul, defiant still, 

Its mighty strength revealed. 
And e'en the bravest, cowered and quailed 

Beneath that eagle eye, 
Which, all the petty tyrant's rage 

It did in scorn defy ! 
A trial ! — 'twas a mockery — 

Condemned this man to death ; 
With cheek unblanched, he scorned their power, 

E'en with his latest breath ; 
And when, upon the gallows-tree 

This brave old hero stood, 
Prepared, in Freedom's holy cause, 

To sacrifice his blood, 



NATHANIEL OOOKIN UPUAM. 99 



When asked the sign of death to give, 

l\epUed, in accents steady, 
" Virginia drops the handlierchief — 

John Brown is always ready ! ! " 

Virginia dropped the handkerchief! 

And brave John Brown is gone ! 
But, ah, she finds her ruin, while 

"His soul is marching on." 

The man whom all men thought was crazed, 

When tyrants he defied, 
Saw the great future deeper far 

Than all the world beside ! 



Natijaniel Sooikiu ^llpijam. 

X G Upham, LL. D., -was a native of Rochester, born in 1801. He graduated at 
nartmouth College in 1820, and was admitted to tiie bar in Strafford Count}'. He 
opened an office at llriBtol, but afterwards settled in Concord. From ISi-S to 
ls43 he was one of the judges of the Superior Court, and in 1853 was commissioner 
to London, "for adjustment of claims between citizens of the United States and 
Great Britain, against the government of either country." After his resignation of 
the office of Juilge of the Superior Court he became general agent of the Concord 
liailruad, remaining in that position nearly to the close of his life. He died in IbfJ'J. 

DEDICATION HYMN. 

To thee, God, with joy we raise, 
In these thy courts, our songs of praise, 
And dedicate this shrine to thee, 
Sacred, incarnate Mystery. 

So when thy chosen temple rose 
O'er Judea's land of fearful woes. 
Thy children met in gladness there. 
To consecrate thine house with prayer. 

And now, in western lands afar, 
Led hither by thy Bethlehem star, 
God of our fathers ! while we here 
Erect thine altars, be thou near ! 

There be thy power and glory known 
By clouds of incense from thy throne ; 
And here, the broken-hearted soul. 
At touch of thine, be rendered whole. 

There sacred symbols often prove 
To grateful hearts thy dying love ; 
And life's young hours with joy begin 
With spriiiiilings from thy crystal spring. 



1 00 POETS OF NE W HAMPSHIRE. 

There may thy banner wave abroad, 
Inscribed with "Holiness to the Lord ;" 
And peace and love, long years to come, 
Make this our favored Gospel Home. 



^mos 13lattdjartr. 

Rev. Amos Blanohard was born in Peacham, Vt., in 1801. He graduaterl at An- 
dovcr Tiieological Seminary in 18'28, and became paator of the Congregational 
church in Warner in 1837. In 1840 he removed to Meriden, and was pastor of the 
church at Kimball Union Academy, where he remained till near the close of hi.s 
life. lie died in his native town in 1869. 



AN EVENING IN THE GRAVE-YARD. 

The moon is up, the evening star 

Shines lovely from its home of blue — 

The fox-howl's heard on the fell afar. 
And the earth is robed in a sombre hue ; 

From the shores of light the beams come down, 

On the river's breast, and cold grave stone. 

The kindling fires o'er heaven so bright 
Look sweetly out from yon azure sea ; 

While the glittering pearls of the dewy night 
Seem trj ing to mimick their brilliancy ; 

Yet all those charms no jo}^ can bring 

To the dead, in the cold grave slumbering. 

To numbers wild, yet sweet withal. 

Should the harp be struck o'er the sleepy pillow. 
Soft as the murmuring, breezy fall 

Of sighing winds on the foam^' billow ; 
For who would disturb in their silent bed 
The fancied dreams of the lowly dead? 

Oh ! is there one in this world can say 
That the soul exists not after death ? 

That the powers which illumine this mould of claj- 
Are but a puff of common breath? 

Oh ! come this night to the grave and see 

The sleepy sloth of your destin}'. 

The night's soft voice, in breathings low. 
Imparts a calm to the breast of the weeper : 

The water's dash and murmuring flow 

No more will soothe the ear of the sleeper, 

Till He, who slept on Judah's plains. 

Shall burst death's cold and icy chains. 



MART CUTTS. IQI 



I've seen the moon gild the mountain's brow, 
I've watched the mist o'er the river stealing, 

But ne'er did I feel in mj' breast, till now, 
So deep, so calm, and so holy a feeling: 

'Tis soft as the thrill which memory' throws 

Athwart the soul in the hour of repose. 

Thou Father of all ! in the worlds of light, 
Fain would my spirit aspire to thee ; 

And through the scenes of this gentle night, 
BelK)ld the dawn of eternity : 

For this is the path, which thou hast given, 

The only path to the bliss of Heaven. 



Miss Cults -was born In Portsmouth, April 4, 1801. Her father, Edward Ciitts, 
was (at one time a shipping merchant, engaged in East India trade, and at his 
ileatli president of the First National Hank of Portsmouth. She was great-grand 
daughter of President Holyoke of Harvard College. In 18,33 she left Portsmouth 
with her brother, the late Hampden Cutts, who witli his wife, a daughter of Consul 
Jarvis, went to North Hartland, Vermont, to reside. In 18(10 she went to Brattle- 
boro' Vt., with her brother's family, and remained there until 1879, when she went 
to Brooklyn, N. Y., to reside with a niece, Mrs. Howard. She died in that citv. 
May -20, 1882. Miss Cutts issued two volumes of verse. The Ilrst was a spriu'htiv 
miscellaneous collection called "The Autobiography of a Clock;" the second w.hs 
entitled "Grondalla," a romance in verse, founded on incidents in the historv of 
her own family in Portsmouth. 



SEA SHELLS. 

Bright, radiant shells from foreign climes. 

How beautiful ye are. 
Decked with the roseate tints ye bring 

From native shore afar ! 

I love 3'our colors and 3-our shine. 
Stray ones from other shores ; 

But 3'et a deeper grace ye have, 
A dearer charm is yours. 

Ye bring the might}' ocean's roar 

Within your little space, 
As if no change, no new abode, 

Its memory could elface. 

Ah ! others praise your glowing hues : 

More wonderful to me. 
Than even the most gorgeous tints, 

These whispers of the sea. 

They seem to speak of hidden power : 
And yet it is not so : 



102 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Strange, strange it is that ye should bring 
The raging water's flow ! 

Ah ! it is strange that what we love 

In jo3'Ous. early da}', 
Should never, never from the soul, 

The spirit, fade away ! 

Then sing, sweet shells, sing on and tell 

Of the old ocean's roar : 
It was 3'our first love, and aught else 

Shall vanish that before. 

When first created, weak and frail, 
The mighty sound ye heard. 

And now no music of the land, 
No zeph3-r, song of bird 

Will e'er eflface it. Be it so. 

Sing on : ye bring to me 
The dashing bound, the foaming spra}', 

The glory of the sea ! 

I seem to view the curling wave, 

I hear the whizzing gush, 
As bright and clear, as swift and bold 

The sparkling waters rush. 

Then ever breathe the song to me 
That tells of native shore : 

I love 3'our beaut}- ; for this charm, 
Bright ones, I love you more. 



SONG. 

I knew a hearth where bright eyes met : 

Why is my spirit sad? 
For round that hearth there only thronged 

The sweet, the pure, the glad. 

Alas ! how much is in the word, 

That simple word, I knew ! 
Yet can we ever cease to love]. 

The beautiful and true? 

Ah ! 'mid the varied scenes of life. 

Its hour of woe or mirth. 
How oft my heart will wander back 

To that beloved hearth ; 



QEOROE WASHINGTON HAMMOND. 1()3 

And trust, though years may desolate 

That once so cherished spot, 
There ma}- remain one gentle heart 

That will forget me not ! 

I knew a hearth where bright eyes met : 

Wh}' is my spirit sad ? 
For round that hearth there only thronged 

The sweet, the pure, the glad. 



THE FATED. 

I saw a picture once, or had a dream, — 

I know not which ; but oft there comes a gleam 

Across m\ mind of what it did portra>'. 

It was a stormy, wild, tempestuous day ; 

And a poor sailor on a rock is cast. 

With nought to shield him from the angrj' blast. 

Alone he stands ; and, far as eye can reach, 

There is no sign of ship or isle or btach : 

Nought seen but ocean, — ocean all around, 

With its tumultuous heaves, — no other sound : 

No form but his, no human arm to save, 

As wave on wave came tumbling over wave. 

The ocean roared and beat and splashed and fumed 

Still on his cragg}' rock stood firm the doomed. 

I heard it rave — oh ! terrible the sound ! 

Darker and darker grew the clouds around ; 

Not yet the fated from his rock is riven : 

Yet is he thei-e, — there, with his 63-6 on heaven. 



Dr. Hammond W.18 Ixirn in Gilsuni, ISIay 1-2, ISO'2. He was educated at Alst«ad 
Academy; studicil mciliciue and crailuatecl in lS-24 from tlic Dartmouth Me(lieal 
College. He setll('(i livst in Kiclmiond, and afterwards in rrootorsville, Vt. Ho 
returned to liis native town in Is.Ki. In 1^06 he removed to Stoe]<l)i-idg:e, N. V. 
where lie died Jan. .30. 1872. He wa.s a delesate to the Con.stitutional Couventlon, 
of 1850, and served his district as State Senator in 185.5 and '56. 



THE PROSPECT. 

A hundred years hence A hundred years hence, 

What a change will be made And less I am thinking. 

In customs and morals, Will no silly pretence 

In taverns and trade ; P>e made for rum-drinking : 

[n landlords who fatten, Let the vender now revel, 

Upon the fool's pence ; All people of sense 

How things will be altered Will think him a devil, 

A hundred 3-ears hence. A hundred years hence. 



104 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Our laws they will then, A hundred years hence, 

In my humble belief, What wonder 'twill give 

Place rumselling men That we ever suflfered 

Along with the thief, Rumsellers to live ? 

And rumselling deem That they were not punished 

The greater offence ; With vengeance intense, 

Even so it will seem All will be astonished 

A dozen years hence. A hundred years hence. 

Rumsellers' attention A hundred 5'ears hence, 

They then may bestow When a Barnum comes round, 

On raising potatoes Among his rare shows 

Or learning to mow, ^ / f ^f"'^^ ^^^ }'^ [^'^"^ 

, ° ^ ... The last rumseller s skin, 
Or some honest calhng g^^^.^^ ^^^ ^^^^^^^ .^^ l,i^ 

Thej" choose to commence, clothes 

For their trade will be ended, And the monkeys will grin, 

A hundred years hence. As they twig his red nose. 



FOR A FRIEND'S ALBUM. 

The picture on the previous page 

Presents a lovers' scene. 
Where love their 3'outhful hearts engage 

While seated on the green. 

Burns clasps his lassie in his arms 

And dreams of future bliss. 
Enraptured by her many charms. 

He fondl}' steals a kiss. 

Nor dreams he that misfortune's cloud 

Is wafting o'er the glade. 
His fancied future to enshroud 

Beneath its somber shade. 

Nor dreams she that the Lethean cup 

Will mar that noble boy 
Whose ej^es poetic fire lights up. 

And her fond hopes destroy'. 

Yet such the fate of Scotia's sou 

With talents at command ; 
And such the fate of every one 

Where rum pollutes the land. 

Then, sister, if some amorous swain 
To you his love should tell, 



CHARLES WARREN BREWSTER. 105 

From giving heed, I pra}' refrain, 
Until his breath j'ou smell. 

If free from whisk}-, rum, or gin, 

Why then, do as is fitting ; 
If otherwise, pray lose no time. 

But quick give him the mitten. 



PRUDENCE. 

O haste not to the gilded shrine, 

Where Bacchus throws his favors round ! 
Let nobler views th}' mind incline 
To turn where purer pleasures shine. 
And truer joys are found. 

O seek not for the Siren's bower. 

Where champagne fills the sparkhng bowl ! 
O yield not to her witching power. 
For when she gives her richest dower, 

She chains the captive soul. 

O shun the demon's nois}' tent, 

Where Bacchus waves his ivy plume ; 
There woe will scowl and guilt torment, — 
Though friends may raise a vain lament, — 
And death will seal thy doom. 

Let Temperance be thj- beacon light 
Throughout life's checkered way ; 
Life's purest joys will then shine bright, 
Its sweetest charms will greet thy sight, 
Bright as the god of day. 



statics <!12iarrcn Urrtostcr. 

Cliarlcs W. Brewster was born in Portsmouth, Seplcinlicr l.l, 1802. ITo hcsan to 
learn the printing business at the age of sixteen veMrs, and after aci|uiring his traile 
bwaine foreman in the otlice of the Portsmouth Journal. lie atterwanls became, 
owner of the Journal. The forty-three volumes of that paper, eouunencing in ISii 
and ending in isHs, tlie year of his death, are at once the reeord of his industry, tlio 
illustration of liis taste" the )ihotograph of his charaeter, his real biography. Ho 
wa.s author of "llamblea about I'ortsmouth," in two volumes. 

HISTORY OF NEWS— BIRTH OF THE PRESS. 

Lo ! when the Eternal planned his wise design. 
Created earth, and like his smile benign, , 
With splendor, beauty, mildness, decked the skies, — 
Waked from eternal sleep, with wondering e3es 
Man viewed the scene, and gave to News its rise. 



100 ' POETS OF NEW EAMPSHIRE. 

New of himself, to Adam all was new, — 

The concave canopy, the landscape's view ; 

The murmuring rivulet, and the zephyr's sound ; 

The songster's carol, and the deer's light bound ; 

The fruit luxuriant, where no brier sprung ; 

No weary toil, from morn to setting sun ; 

But every gale sweet odors wafted on, 

His joys to freshen. Though he yet was lone, 

This news was good indeed : such riches given, 

Enough almost to make of earth a heaven. 

But better news by far did Adam hear. 

When woman's voice first hailed his raptured ear,- 

News which, in later days, full well we know 

Lightens life's load of man}^ a heav}' woe. 

But scarce our common parent rose from earth. 

Inhaled the breath of life, and Eve had birth, 

When twined the monster round the fatal tree, — 

Dispelled their joy, content and purit}' : 

Th'cn agonizing Nature brought to view 

Ills which in Eden's bowers they never knew ; 

Then, at that hour accursed, that hour forlorn 

Bad news — the demon's first bequest — was born. 

But, though ignobly born, to seek we're prone 

The bad as well as good, and make our own 

The knowledge of the griefs and woes of all 

On whom the withering frowns of fortune fall. 

Bad news abundant since has filled our world : 

War's bloody garments oft have been unfurled, — 

The kindl}' parent oft been called to yield 

His earthly hope to d^'C the ensanguined field ; 

Disease oft torn our dearest hopes awa}-, 

Tyrannic princes borne despotic sway ; 

And every da}' the reckless bearer's been 

Of evil tidings to the sons of men. 

But change this picture of a darkened hue ; 

Let scenes more bright now open to the view : 

Though things may change with ever-varying flow, 

They do not bring to all unmingled woe. 

Do millions mourn a kingdom's fallen state? 

A C?esar hails the news with joy elate. 

Does drought or frost destroy the planter's hope, 

And climes more genial yield a fruitful crop? 

Enhanced by contrast, these delight the more 

In the good tidings of their bounteous store. 

Does "the insatiate ai'cher" claim a prize? 

The weeping friend, the heir with tearless eyes, 



CYNTHIA L. OEROULD. 107 

Show joy is oft the associate of grief, 

And pain to some, to others is rcUef. 

Full many ages, centuries, rolled along. 

E'er news a record found, the press a tongue. 

From sire to son, tradition's tale was told. 

Or musty parchment spoke the days of old ; 

No minor incidents of passing time 

Ere filled a page or occupied a rhyme ; 

No wars of politics on paper fought,* 

And few the favored ones by science taught. 

Minerva saw the drear}" waste below, 

And urged the gods their bounties to bestow. 

The mind of man to chaste refinement bring, 

And ope to all the pure Pierian spring. 

The gods convened ; but still Minerva frowned : 

Not one of all their gifts her wishes crowned. 

Till Vulcan thus, — and simple the address, — 

"M}' richest gifts behold, — the types and prkss !" 

The goddess smiled, and swiftly Mercury flies 

To bear to earth the god's most favored prize. 

Auspicious hour ! hail, morn of brighter dav' ! 

Ages of darkness, close ! to light give way ! 

The morn is past, the splendid sun is high ! 

The mist dispelled, and all beneath the sky 

Feel its kind influence ; and its cheering ra}' 

P^nlivens all, and shines in brilliant da}'. 

The sacred writ, which once was scarcely known 

To teachers, now (almost a dream !) is thrown 

Into a book, — all, in one little hour. 

Alike in king's and lowest menial's power ; 

And bounteous given — scarce is felt the task — 

In every work which use or fanc}' ask. 

Thousands of years a drear}^ night had been, 

Ere Vulcan's art surpassed the tedious pen, — 

Ere down from heaven this precious gift was brought. 

To lend the speed of lightning unta thought. 



Mrs GcrouM, of ronc-ord, was born in Sullivan. May 2, 180J. She was nmrrlcd 
Id I{cv. Moses (icroulil, Fehruary .'>, 182il. Her sou, Kev. Samuel L. UerouKl, is pas- 
tor of the Cougregatioual church iu Gofl'stowu. 



SUNSET. 

I saw the glorious pencilhngs 
Of sunset in the west ; 



108 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

What gorgeous hues, superbly bright 
That seraph veil imprest ! 

The richest tints were glowing there, 
Now shaded, then full deep. 

And all so lovel}' as might seem 
The home where angels keep. 

The folded curtains opened oft, 
And cherubs seemed to be 

Watching what things were done on earth 
Behind its drapery. 

And did their hoi}' bosoms swell 
With joy at scenes of love? 

Did earth, so beauteous, seem almost 
The dawn of heaven above? 

But vanished are those brilliant clouds, — 

Yet God doth surely look 
And note each deed of human-kind 

Within his doomsday-book. 



HYMN FOR THE SEASON. 

Now,autumn winds are blowing, Just like the hectic flushes 

Tlie leaves are flut'ring fast, Ere ceases mortal breath. 
With ev'rv color glowing, 

As sweeps along the blast. The Autumn winds are sweeping. 

O'er some we held most dear. 
The tinges of the rainbow And leaves are vigils keeping, 

Are painted on the trees, While freezes nature's tear. 

And leaves in thousand mazes, 

Are dancing in the breeze. No autumn winds in heaven, 

No changes there can come ; 
But, tho' all seems so brilliant But, 'tis eternal spring-time. 

It is the glow of death, In that all glorious home. 



Tresident Smith was born in Amherst, Sept 21, 1804. In his youth he learned the 
business of printing in Windsor, Vt. In 1830 he graduated at Dartmouth College, and 
from Andover Theological Seminary in 1831. He became a Presbyterian clergy- 
man and pastor of a church in New York city. He left th;it position in 18(>3, and 
was made President of Dartmouth College. He died Aug. IG, 1877. The University 
of New York conferred on him the title t)f LL. D.in iSOl. He published books auii 
many sermons, and was a man of great ability. During his presidency Dartmouth 
College made great progress, and he was belored by every one. 



ROBERT BOOBY CAVERL7. 100 



TO MOUNT ASCUTNFA'. 

Fair mount, in sharpest outline showing, 

Athwart the clear, blue, wintry sky, 

As long I gaze with moistened eye, 
How weird the fancies thickly growing. 

What scenes, long past, are flitting by ! 

Again, with childhood's ken, I'm marking 
Thy star-crowned peak, thy evergreen. 
Thy summer garb, thy snowy sheen ; 

Again, with childhood's ears, I'm harking 
To winds that rise thy cUffs atween. 

Again, a college boy, I'm glancing 

Adown the vale thou watchest well ; 

Old hopes anew my bosom swell — 
Fair castles airy re-advancing. 

Called up as by the olden spell. 

But how, like mists that morning brought thee, 
Those baseless fabrics vanished soon ; 
And now, at manhood's sober noon. 

The golden lesson thou hast taught me, 
I deem a truer, richer boon. 

Old friends are in the valley sleeping. 

That by me stood to look on thee ; 

And youthful j-ears how swift they flee : 
Her solemn ward is memory keeping 

O'er things that were, but may not be. 

But thou, symbolic, still uprising, 

Speakest of good that lives for aye, 

And truth of an eternal day ; 
Of good, all real joy comprising — 

A glory fading not away. 

So, as from day to day I view thee, 
I count earth's shadows lighter still ; 
And with an humbled, chastened will, 

To God's own Mount uplooking through thee, 
Immortal hopes my bosom thrill. 

l\cibert liJootiB (JTabcrli). 

This poet was born in TJarrinpton, now Strafford, July 10, l:^OG. He crailuatcd at 
Ilarvanl Law School, and practiscil law, first, six years in Limerick. Maine, and 
then in Lowell, Mass., wliere he now remains. His poetry, or aulhor^lnp. may t>G 
found in his volumesof "Epics, Lyiics, and Ballad.s"; Inhissevcral ovation.s; in his 
"History of the Indian Wars of New En>rlnnd;" in hia legends and dramas, tnti- 
tled, "Battles of the Bush," and lu other works. 



110 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

THE OLD GARRISON HOUSE. 

Talk with a ghost at my native Barrington, N. H., Saturday eve, October 20, 18C6. 

They're sacred now, these walls of wood ! 

Ah ! what can bear comparison ? 
From age to age they've nobly stood, 
They've braved the conflict, storm and flood 

Of the olden time, a Garrison, 

Deserted now, within, without. 

Alone, aloof, upon a hill. 
And rumor rife hath come about. 
That "in those port-holes looking out, 

The midnight spectre lingers still." 

And now, ye ghosts, if ghost there be. 
Speak ! speak, and tell us of the strife. 

When you had life and limbs as we, 

Wlien panting pilgrims had to flee 
The tomahawk and scalping knife. 

When in that boundless forest wild, 

At sound of war-whoop from afar, — 
How anxious, up and down ye filed. 
And hewed the logs, and upward piled 
This fortress rude. How in dread war 

At humble huts, far scattered wide, 

To toil ye gave the weary daj-. 
Then driven here, at eventide. 
The child and mother, side by side, 

Fast winding through the thorny way. 

Unheeded then the beasts of prey. 
The prowl of wolf no terrors brought, 

Nor rancorous reptiles in the wa}^. 

The pilgrim heart knew no dismay. 

Save what the knife and faggot taught. 

Within these doors then bolted fast. 

Say, what of dreams? Pray speak and tell, 

How, oft amid the tempest blast. 

Ye heard the rattling arrows cast. 
The mid-night gun, the savage yell. 

What tearful thought, and what the care, 
That moved the matrons, and the men 
To hug sweet infants, cradled there, 



BOBERT BOODY CA VERL Y. i n 

To guard the household, and to share 
The dangers dread impending then ! 

And what when tedious j'ears had passed, 

To mourn thy many kindred slain ! 
Here then, at peace, ye lived at last, 
Yet did the sands of life fall fast, 

And dust to dust returned again. 

How then the spirit, wafted high, 

From Hfeless nature 'neath the ground ; 

Then from the portals of tlie sky, 

'JMid clouds of night, — oh, tell us why ^ 
In this old fort ye still are found ! 

Whence are th}' joj-s eternal, bright. 

As if ye had no faltering fear. 
No sad bereavement, pain, nor blight. 
Nor care to cramp that calm delight. 

Foretold of faith in such career? 

Ye'v'e seen the tribes that roamed of ^ore, 
From Lovell's Lake to the falls of Berwick, 

Or down Cocheco's woodland shore. 

Where Wat-che-no-it dipped his oar. 
At Dover old, or Squanomcgonic. 

Since then as now to market town. 

From hills afar, yet blue and bland, 
'Mid summer's heat or winter's frown. 
How settlers teamed their treasures down, 

Proud in the products of the land. 

Their foot-prints firm are on the plain 
'Mid blighted frost, or vigorous health, 

Where varied life of jo\' and pain, 

Hath learned of mother earth how vain 
Is pride or fame, or sordid wealth ! 

Then tell us true, if well yc may. 

Since tribe and pilgrim hither met ; 
How generations lived their daj', 
How each in turn have passed away, 

But where, O where, untold as yet ! 

Of all that host, some knowledge lend, 

That IVom the world the years have hurried. 
Say what of Waldron, what his end? — 



1 1 2 POETS OF NE W HAMPSHIRE. 

Old "Mi-an-to-ni-mo" his friend, 

And "Mossup slain j-ct kindly buried."* 

Say, if amid that spirit sphere, 
Ye have full knowledge freely given, 

Why thus withhold from mortals here 

The glories grand, forever dear 

To thee and thine, of death and heaven. 

The spectre, listening, seemed to move, 

Half hidden still within the wall, 
In garb of light and looks of love. 
With cadence strange as from above, 
Made answer thus, the one for all : 

"Why thus should men make search to know 
Their final fate forever hidden? 

Beyond this world of weal and woe. 

Your vision finite ne'er can go ; 
Enough for man it is forbidden. 

."What truth in Abraham ye trace, 

And what of Israel's tribes are told. 
What Bunyan wrote of the pilgrim race. 
Ye well ma}' know and grow in grace. 
As faithful fathers did of old. 

"Enough ! and why should we disclose 

The purpose grand ordained above, 
Betray the trust that heaven bestows. 
And tempt the world from calm repose, 
Its tranquil life and truthful love. 

"Then banish care ! Earth can but see. 
Far in a cloud, a guardian hand ; 

Nor heed the storm, alike as we. 

True mariners upon the sea, 

Ye'll find the pilgrim's promised land." 

The night-damp dark in curtains fell, 

Hushed were the hills and valleys green, 
I bent my foot-step down the dell, 
A voice there answered, "All is well," — 
And nothins: more was said or seen. 



♦Miantonimo was a chief said to have been friendly, tall and cunning. 
ed the forests in this region of country, of which Major Richard Wa 



He hunt- 

''aldron was 
chief among the whites. Mossup, a brother of Miantonimo, was killed by the 
Mohawks about twenty miles "above the Piscataqua," and was buried by Major 
Waldron. Major Waldron was afterwards cruelly murdered by the Indians in his 
own house and within bis own garrison, at Cocheco, now Dover, on the night of 
June 27, 1689. 



SARAH R. BARNES. 113 

CLARA. 

Here on this hill she wandered in her childhood, 

Briefly to dance sweet summer da\'s along ; 
While oft, in flowery vale or waving wildwood, 

She blest the blue-bird with her little song. 
Now beqds the cypress, weeping limb and boughs ; 

Sad night comes down to lave the leaf with tears ; 
Soft gentle zephyrs sigh their wonted vows 

Unto the love of life's departed years. 

Ten thousand days' bright dawn shall beam upon it, 

Ten thousand nights' sweet stars shall come with care ; 
Ten thousand wild-birds' lovely warbling on it. 

Shall bring oblations to my Clara fair. 
Earth's lengthened years are little in His sight. 

Who rolls the spheres in majest}' above ; 
Whose sun on high is but a candle-light, 

To lead frail mortals to a throne of love. 



Mrs. Barnes was a daughter of Hon. Richanl II. Ayer. Her native town was 
Hooksett. She resided in Manchester, and died there in 1S7"2. On revisiting iier 
native hills she composed the lirst poem here given. It was written in the morning 
of a Fourth of July. 



OUR MOUNTAIN HOMES. 

The glad, green earth, beneath our feet, 

The blue, bright heaven is greeting ; 
And voiceless praise is rising up, 

Responsive to the meeting ; 
Yet wherefore wakes a scene like this 

The warm heart's wild emotion ? 
The slave may boast a home as bright, 

Be3'ond the pathless ocean. 

Why do we love our mountain land ? 

The murmuring of her waters? 
Italia's clime is far more bland, 

More beautiful her daughters ! 
Why pine we for our native skies ? 

Our cloud-encircled mountains? 
The hills of Spain as proudly rise, 

As freshly burst her fountains. 

Alas for mount or classic stream, 
By deathless memories haunted, 



114 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

For there oppression uiirebuked, 
His iron foot hath phmted ; 

The curse is on her vine-clad hills, 
'Tis rife upon her waters, 

But doubl3' deep upon her sons. 
And on her dark-eyed daughters. 

Go fling a fetter o'er the mind. 

And bid the heart be purer ; 
Unnerve the warrior's lifted arm 

And bid his aim be surer. 
Go bid the weary, prisoned bird 

Unfurl her powerless pinion, 
But ask not of the mind to brook 

The despot's dark dominion. 

Why turn we to our mountain homes 

With more than filial feeling? 
'Tis here that Freedom's altars rise, 
. And Freedom's sons are kneeling. 
Why sigh we not for softer climes ? 

Why chng to that which bore us ? 
'Tis here we tread on Freedom's soil. 

With Freedom's sunshine o'er us. 

This is her home — this is her home, 

The dread of the oppressor ; 
And this her hallowed birth-day is. 

And millions rise to bless her. 
'Tis joy's high sabbath ; grateful hearts 

Leap gladly in their fountains. 
And bless our God who fixed the home 

Of freedom in the mountains. 



FAREWELL TO NEW ENGLAND. 

Farewell to New England, the land of my birth, 
To the home of my father, the hall, and the hearth ; 
To the beings beloved, who have gladdened with light 
Life's perilous path — be their own ever bright. 

And 0, when the exile is present in thought, 
Be the fond recollection with happiness fraught ; 
Remember, remember, but not to deplore. 
Remember in smiles, or remember no more ! 

I go to the land of the m3'rtle and vine. 

Where beauty is wreathing the pillar and shrine ; 



MOODY CVRRIER. \ \ r, 



Where fairj'-like feet are repelling the sod, 
And the incense of Nature is breathing to God. 

My grave will be made where the winter is not, 
And the sun of the south may illumine the si)ot ; 
Will gild and will gladden the place of my rest, 
Imparting in death what in life I loved best. 

That smile all unclouded when others are flown, 
Bright, beautiful Nature ! that smile is thine own 
A glor}' above all the glories of earth. 
The glory that woke when the morning had birth. 



iiflootij) (JTurrier. 

Moody Currier was Ijorn in Boscawen, April 22, 1806. At an early ape his ]);tr- 
cnts rcnioveil to ISow where his early years were passed on a larin. lie fitted for 
(•olle.ffe at Hopkinton Academy, and graduated at Dartmouth in 1834. lie tauglit 
scIiddI in Concord, and, in company with Asa Fowler, edited the New Hampshire 
Literary Gazette. He was afterwards principal of the Hopkinton Academy, ami 
in 1830 principal of the High School at Lowell, Mass. In 1841 he removed to Man- 
chester, where he has since ctintinueil to reside. At Hopkinton and Lowell he 
studied Lawand was admitted to tlie liar, and Ijecame a law partner of Geo. VV. 
Morrison until 184.3, when he continued tlie pracli<-eof law independently until 1848. 
In that year the Amoskeag IJank was organized, and he becanx! cashier. From 
then till the present time he has been connected with l>anking institutions, and he- 
side^ has held many offices of trust and respoiisiliility in the state. A volume of 
his poems was published by John B. Clarke in 1881. 



ALL THINGS CHANGE. 

The fairest blossom of the spring, 

Though beautiful and gay, 
The gaudy insect's gilded wing, 

Must quickly pass away. 

The star of beaut}^ shines on high, 
Whilst o'er the mountain's height, 

It climbs the dusk^'-bosomed sk}'. 
Amid the lamps of night. 

That star of beaut}' must decay, — 
Its course will soon be run ; 

The heavens and earth will pass awa}', 
AVhen once their work is done. 

There is a realm of endless day, 
Where love shall never end ; 

There is a life without decay, 

Where kindred souls shall blend. 

There is a boundless space above ; 

To loving souls 'tis given. 
To live a life of endless love, 

A life of endless heaven. 



1 1 6 POETS OF NE W HAMPSHIRE. 

OCTOBER. 

FROM THE FRENCH OF COPPEE. 

Before that the heavens in winter are veiled, 
Before that the streamlets shall close, 

Let us list to the song of the last singing bird ; 
Let us look on the last blooming rose. 

October still gives us a moment to gaze, 
Whilst Nature's in glory arrayed ; 

Its mantle of purple, its forests of gold, 
Are beauties that wither and fade. 

Such beautiful charms will not always endure ; 

Yet in spite of the tempests that lower, 
We may still have a moment to linger in hope : 

Let us seize on the fugitive hour. 

Oh, then, let us build our last house in a land 
Where the skies are all bright and serene ; 

Where never the cold chills of winter are known, 
Where the fields and the forests are green. 



ON RECOVERING FROM SICKNESS. 

FROM THE FRENCH OF GRISSET. 

O day of sweet recovering health ! 

Bright hours of joyful mirth ! 
It is a ra}' of heavenly life ; 

A new restoring birth. 
What pleasures kindle in my breast 
To view the purple curtained west. 

As twilight fades away. 
The meanest object strikes my view ; 
To me the universe is new, 

And all is fair and gay. 

The dewy, verdant groves among. 

When golden morn appears, 
The wakeful linnet's matin song 

With transport strikes my ears ; 
A thousand sights now meet my eye, 
Which oft had passed unheeded by, 

But now their charms I see. 
Sweet sights to vulgar e3'es unseen. 
With winning look and gentle mien, 

Are ever new to me. 



EPHRA IM PEA BODY. 117 

THE INDIANS. 

B}" the banks of a, stream on the mountain side, 
Where swift o'er the rocks the bright waters glide, 
Is a hillock of earth enveloped in shade, 
Where the red warrior's bones in their blankets are laid. 

There the song of the wood-bird is heard in the spring ; 
There the A'oung foxes bark and the cat-birds sing ; 
There the pine and the beech trees their dark shadows spread. 
While their roots clasp the soil that envelopes the dead. 

But their children have gone where the sun sinks to rest, 
And the smoke of their wigwams is seen in the west ; 
But tlieir strength and their beaut^y are fading away 
As the twilight of evening at the close of the day. 

Soon the last of their race will be lost to our sight, 
And their sun will go down in the darkness of night ; 
But the white man will dwell where their cabins have stood, 
And turn up the soil that was wet with their blood. 

As the months and the years in their course shall roll on. 
Our children will ask for the race that is gone ; 
But their mounds and their graves will be lost to our sight. 
And their storj- be shrouded in fable and night. 

And so shall the tribes of the earth fade awa}' ; 

And race after race shall rise and decay ; 

But the heavens and the earth shall eternal remain. 

And God in His works forever shall reisn. » 



Hev. Ephraim Pcaliody was 1)orii in Wilton in 1S07, and educated at Bowdoin 
College, gTacluatinir in \>^-l~. lie Ijecame a Unitarian clergyman, and in 1S46 was 
settled over King's Chape), Boston, wliere he preached acceptably lor ten years. 
He died in lSo6. 



WEST'S PICTURE OF THE INFANT SAMUEL. 

In childhood's spring — ah ! blessed Spring ! 

(As flowers closed uj? at even. 
Unfold in morning's earliest beam,) 

The heart unfolds to heaven. 
Ah ! blesstid cliild ! that trustingly 

Adores, and loves, and fears. 
And to a Father's voice replies, 

Speak Lord ! th}' servant hears. 



1 18 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

When youth shall come — ah ! blessed j-outh ! 

If still the pure heart glows, 
And in the world and word of God, 

Its maker's language knows ; 
If in the night and in the day, 

Midst youthful joys or fears. 
The trusting heart can answer still, 

Speak, Lord ! thy servant hears. 

When age shall come — ah ! blessed age ! 

If in its lengtliening shade, 
Wlien life grows faint, and earthly lights 

Recede, and sink, and fade ; 
Ah ! blessed age ! if then heaven's light 

Dawns on the closing eye ; 
And faith unto the call of God, 

Can answer, Here am I ! 



THE SKATER'S SONG. 

Away ! away ! — our fires stream bright 

Along the frozen river. 
And tlieir arrow}' sparkles of brilliant light 

On the forest branches quiver ; 
Away, away, for the stars are forth, 

And on the pure snows of the valle}', 
In giddy trance the moonbeams dance ; 

Come let us our comrades rally. 

Awa}^ awa}', o'er the sheeted ice. 

Away, away, we go ; 
On our steel-bound feet we move as fleet 

As deer o'er the Lapland snow. 
What though the sharp north winds are out, 

The skater heeds them not ; 
Midst the laugh and shout of the joyous rout 

Gray winter is forgot. 

'Tis a pleasant sight, the joyous throng 

In the light of the reddening flame. 
While witli raan}^ a wheel on the ringing steel 

They rage their riotous game : 
And though the night-air cutteth keen. 

And the white moon shineth coklly. 
Their homes I ween, on the hills liave been ; 

They should breast the strong blast boldly. 



JAMES B REMAN. 119 

Let others choose more gentle sports, 

B3' the side of the winter's hearth, 
Or at the ball, or the festival, 

Seek for their share of mirth ; 
But as for me, away, away, 

"Where the meny skaters be ; 
Where the fresh wind blows, and the smooth ice glows. 

There is the place for me. 



Samcg 13rcman. 

James Breman was a native of TJooking-ham county, born in 1808. At the ape of 
four years he lost his parents by deatli, ami was taken by a kind-liearted old lady 
who fared for him till his tifteentli year, when he went to live in another family, 
where lie could attend school. Sul>se(iuently he learned the carpenter's trade, and, 
after a lew years, went to New Orleans, where, soon after his arrival, he fell a victim 
to yellow fever. In 1844 an account of his life, with a selection from his poems, was 
published in The New Hampshire Magazine. 



STANZAS. 

Life's joys are all a hollow show, 
Like fruits that gild the Dead Sea waste, 

And tempting to the pilgrim grow, 
Yet fall in ashes on the taste. 

And erring man, a pilgrim here. 

Still onward, hoping, driven. 
Soon finds that all that's loved and dear 

To darkness leads, like shades of even. 

And false the dazzling, flickering flame 

That shoots from Fame's proud, dizzy height ; 

And Mammon's wand, Ambition's aim. 
But dazzles to deceive the sight ; 

And Friendship's tear, and Beauty's bloom. 

Deceptive shine, deceptive flow ; 
And Hope's delusive dreams illume 

To leave a deeper shade of woe. 

And Love, false Love, the s^'ren sings, 

And timid Virtue lifts her e^'e. 
Yet woos her but to deal his stings. 

Then leaves the flower to fade and die. 

Oh ! false as fair, as fleeting too. 
And changing as the hues of even. 

Is eveiy eartlil}' charm we view — 
"There's nothing true but Heaven." 



120 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 



^i)oma!S 1^, JHose^. 



Thomas P. Moses was born in Portsmouth, February 17, 1808. He was a teacher 
of music, His death occurred in his native city, November 2'2, 1881. 



TO A MINIATURE OF A DEPARTED FRIEND. 

Jewel more dear than pearls or gold, 
Bright impress of the loved and lost ! 

Thee to m}' bosom will I fold, 

While on life's changeful sea I'm tossed. 

Dear image of a soul refined ! 

There's inspiration in thine e3'es ; 
And on those lips seem whispers kind, 

Like soothing music from the skies. 

I gaze upon thy features fair. 

Till fancy paints a breathing glow : 

Thy smile then dissipates my care. 
And frees my breast from every woe. 

Thy voice seems raised in seraph song, 
And sweetly echoes in mine ear : 

O heart ! deem not m^' fancy wrong ; 
Still would I dream that voice I hear. 



Eunice Kimball True was born in Plainfield. She was educated at Kimball Un- 
ion Academy, tliree years, ending in 1828, and in Aug. 18:30 was married to William 
H. Daniels. She died in her native town, June 16, 1841. A volume of her poems 
was published iu 1843. 



THE FIRST FLOWER. 

Ere melts the dews in liquid showers. 
Or trees their vernal robes renew, 

The first-born of the race of flowers 
Spreads to the sk}- its answering blue. 

Born of the sun's first genial kiss. 

That woos to love the chaste, cold earth ; 

Sweet bud of hope, a nameless bliss 

Thrills the warm heart to hail th^' birth. 

I find thee in the leafless wild. 

Beside the snow-wreath blossoming, 

As Winter in his dotage mild. 

Would ape the brighter robe of Spring. 

Or the soft south, in wayward mood, 
While loitering by the rocky cleft. 



HUOE MOORE. 121 



Amid its dreary solitude 

This frail and sweet memorial left. 

No warbler of the glades is near, 
No scented shrub nor floweret fair ; 

But glittering flake and ice-pearl clear, 
Th}' chill and mute companions are. 

But the same power ordained thy birth. 
And tinged th}' soft, cerulean eye, 

That poised in space this mighty earth, 
And hung its quenchless lamps on high. 

And in each cup, each tinted grace. 
Each leaf th}' moss}- stem uprears, 

The moulding of that hand I trace. 

That fashioned in their pride the spheres. 

Yet art thou frail, th}- transient hour 
Of bloom and beauty will be o'er, 

Ere spring shall dress the green-wood bower, 
And spread her bright voluptuous store. 

Even now thy hues are in their wane. 

Thou first-born of the race of flowers ; 
Go. thou shalt bloom on eartli again. 

Unlike the loved and lost of ours. 



l^\\%^) fBoorc. 

Hugh Moore, a self-oflurated man, ami a printer, was born in Anilicrst, Xov. li), 
1808. In 182S, for a while, he i)iiljlislied T/jnc'.t Mirror, a Mcel^ly ne\vs))iii)cr, in 
Concord. Tlie next year he began tlie iniljlicatlon of tlie Democratic Spy, in San- 
bornton, which was removed to Gilford and discontinued in June tlie sanie;^.vear. 
He was afterwards editor of the Bnrliiif/ton Saiti in/, iiin\ at one time connected 
with the Custom House iu Boston. He died iu Anilier^t, February 13, 1837. 



SPRING IS COMING. 

Every breeze that passes o'er us. 
Every stream that leaps before us, 
Eveiy tree in sylvan brightness 
Bending to the soft winds' lightness ; 
Every bird and insect humming 
Whispers sweetl}^ "Spring is coming!" 

Rouse thee, boy ! the sun is beaming 
Brightly in th}^ chamber now ; 

Rouse thee, boy ! nor slumber dreaming 
Of sweet maiden's eye and brow. 



1 22 POETS OF NE W HAMPSHIRE. 

See ! o'er Nature's wide dominions, 

Befiuty revels as a bride ; 
All the plumage of lier pinions 

In the rainbow's hues are dyed ! 

Gentle maiden, vainly weeping 

O'er some loA^ed and faithless one ; 
House thee ! give th}^ tears in keeping 

To the glorious morning sun ! 
Roam thou where the flowers are springing, 

Where the whirling stream goes by ; 
Where the birds are sweetly singing 

Underneath a blushing sky ! 

Rouse thee, hoary man of sorrow ! 

Let thy grief no more subdue ; 
God will cheer thee on the morrow, 

With a prospect ever new. 
Though 3'ou now weep tears of sadness. 

Like a withered flower bedewed ; 
Soon thy heart will smile in gladness 

With the holy, just and good. 

Frosty Winter, cold and drear}-, 

Totters to the arms of Spring, 
Like the spirit, sad and wear}', 

Taking an immortal wing. 
Cold the grave to every bosom, 

As the Winter's keenest breath ; 
Yet the buds of joy will blossom 

Even in the vale of death. 



TO-MORROW. 

How sweet to the heart is the thought of to-morrow, 
When hope's fairy pictures bright colors display ! 

How sweet when we can from futurity borrow 
A balm for the griefs that afflict us to-day ! 

When wearisome sickness has taught me to languish 
For health, and the comfort it brings on its wing. 

Let me hope, (oh how soon it would lessen my anguish,) 
That to-morrow will ease and serenity bring. 

When travelling alone, quite forlorn, unbefriended. 

Sweet the hope that to morrow my wanderings will cease 

That, at home, then, with care sympathetic attended, 
I shall rest unmolested, and slumber in peace. 



MAHY WILKIN S SPAULDING. 123 

Or, when from the friends of my heart long divided, 
The fond expectation, with joy how replete ! 

Tliat from far distant regions, hy Providence guided, 
To morrow will see us most happily meet. 

Wlien six days of labor, each other succeeding, 
With hurr}' and toil have my spirits opi)rest, 

What pleasure to think as the last is receding, 
To-morrow will be a Sabbath of rest. 

And when the vain shadows of time are retiring, 
When life is fast fleeting and death is in sight, 

The Christian, believing, excelling, expiring. 
Beholds a to-morrow of endless delight. 

But the infidel, then, surely sees no to-morrow, 
Yet he knows that his moments are hasting awnv : 

Poor wretch ! can he feel, without heart-rending sorrow, 
That his prospect of jo}- will die with to-day ? 



MIDNIGHT. 

Serene the sky, the beauteous moon 
In solitude pursues her way ; 

The warbling note, the plaintive tune, 
Are destined onlv for the day : 

The twinkling stars in beauty shine, 

Prerogative of things divine ! 

How calm the scene — no mystic wreath 

Obscures the azure sk}" ; 
The passing air is but a breath, 

That's breathed from on high, 
With Nature's various charms combined 
To raise to rapturous thoughts the mind. 

Oh ! 'tis an hour when man discerns, 

And ruminates alone ; 
Perliaps, ere on its axle turns 

The earth, our lives are gone. 
And then, alas ! all, all is gloom, — 
Religion visits not the tomb ! 



Mrs. Siiauldiiifj wns bdvii in M;irv:iri|, Afass., Jannnry 'JO, isii!). she wcnluitli 
liori>;n\'iits,Jrisialiaiiil l':ii7.al)etli 'I'aylor toresiilf in Ti'niple in ISl'.l, ami siilif-ciiiu-nt- 
ly inai-iiiMl .lacnli s. S|iaul<linjr "f Uialtown. He was a prailualc of I)artni(iuili, an'l 
tcac'liini? was liis jirolcsslon. He Ijecamc virincipal of Barre academy in Vermont. 
Mrs. Spaulding died Sept. 22, 1S81, soon after her liusbaud's death. 



124 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

WHY SHOULD WE CLING TO EARTH. 

Why should we cling to earth 
When all its ties are breaking? 

Wh}' should we trust its jo^-s 
When every heart is aching? 

What can avail its richest wreath 

To heal the bosom rent with grief. 

Wh}' should we cling to earth ? 

A tangled web it's weaving 
Around our eager hearts, 

Still smiling and deceiving ; 
Each rising morn with magic sway, 
Deludes again but to betra}'. 

Whj- should we cling to earth? 

Friends one by one are dying, 
Hope's golden pinions crushed. 

And heaven-eyed pity flying ; 
Peace o'er her faded olive weeps, 
And Justice on her tribune sleeps. 

Ah ! cling not thou to earth ! 

Love on its breast is bleeding, 
Within its cherished bowers 

The worm of death is feeding. 
Turn, mortal, turn thj' weary eye 
From earth's dark shades to rest on high. 



lEtrmunti Uurke. 

Erimnnd Burke was born in Westminster, Vermont, January 23, 1809. He be- 
canu' a lawver attlieage of twenty-one, and practised iuColebrook, and afterwards 
in AVliiH-tield. He went to Claremont in 1833, and was editor of The Argus. In 
1834 lie removed Mith his paper to Newport, where it was united with The Specta- 
tor. He was member of Congress in 1839, and Commissioner of Patents in 1845. 
He retui-ned to Newport in 1849, and resided there till his death, Jan. 25, 1882. 



IN IMITATION OF BURNS. 

Oh ! if my love were yon bright flower. 

With perfumes rising on the air, 
And I mj'self a tiny bee. 

To nestle in its petals fair, — 
Ah ! there in rapturous joys I'd live. 

And revel in her nectar'd charms. 
And there a sweeter bliss I'd take 

Than Cupid's self in Psj'che's arms. 



STEPHEN GEEENLEAF BULFINCn. 125 

Oh ! were m)* love yon fleecy cloud, 

That, graceful, floats in yonder skj', 
And I myself a sunbeam bright, 

To warm and glow as she flies hy, — 
Ah ! there, from dewy morn till eve, 

I'd wanton in each mazy fold, 
And take my fill of sweet delight. 

And batlie her form in liquid gold. 

Oh ! were my love 3'on cr^'stal sti'eam 

That ripples o'er its pebbly bed, 
And I a flower upon its brink, 

To bow and lave ni}' wear}' head, — 
Ah ! there, the live-long da}' and night, 

I'd kiss and quafli' her sparkling wave, 
And on her bosom soft I'd sigh 

To drown me in so sweet a grave. 



Stcpi)cn Srccnlcaf IJulfxnd). 

Rev. Stephen (;. Bultiuch, a Unitarian clergyman, was born in Boston, June 18, 
]80',t. lie grailiKitnl at t'lilumbia College, I). C, in 18-26, and entered the Divinity 
SeJiool at Cambridge, Mass., the same year. From J8;50 to 1837 lie preached at Au- 
gusta, Georgia, and from 1845 to 18.")2 in Nashua, when he removed to Boston. A 
volume of his poems was published in 1834. 



LINES ON VISITING TALLULAH FALLS, GEORGIA. 

The forest. Lord, is thine ; 
Thy quickening voice calls forth its buds to light ; 

Its thousand leaflets shine 
Bathed in thy dews, and in thy sunbeams bright. 

Tliy voice is on the air, 
Where breezes murmur through the pathless shades ; 

Thy universal care 
These awful deserts as a spell pervades. 

Father, these rocks are thine. 
Of Thee the everlasting monument. 

Since at thy glance divine. 
Earth trembled and her solid hills were rent. 

Thine is the flashing wave, 
Poured forth by thee from its rude mountain urn. 

And thine yon secret cave, 
Where haply, gems of orient lustre burn. 

I hear the eagle scream ; 
And not in vain his cry ! Amid the wild 



12G POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Thou hearest ! Can I deem 
Thou wilt not listen to tliy human child ? 

God of the rock and flood, 
In this deep solitude I feel thee nigh. 

Alniight}^, wise and good, 
Turn on thy suppliant child a parent's eye. 

Guide through life's vale of fear 
My placid current, from defilement free, 

Till, seen no longer here, 
It finds the ocean of its rest in thee. 



HYMN FOR SABBATH MORNING WORSHIP. 

Lord, in this sacred hour Thy temple is the arch 

Within thy courts we bend, Of yon unmeasured sk}' ; 

And bless thy love, and own Thy Sabbath, the stupendous 

thy powder, march 

Our Father and our Friend. Of thine eternity. 

liut thou art not alone Lord, may that holier day 

In courts by mortals trod ; Uawn on tliy servants' sight ; 

Nor only is the day thine own And purer worship ma}- we pay 
When man draws near to God. In heaven's unclouded light. 



imiltott SHartr. 

Rev. Milton Ward was probably born in Hanover in 1809. He grartuatcfl at Dart- 
moutli College in 1825, and in 1829, at the Medical Department of the same college. 
He became a Congregational minister, and in 1834 was ordained as pastor of the 
churcli in Hillsborough. He died in 1874. In 182.5 a volume of his poems was 
published under the title of "Poetic Effusions." '"The Lyre" is said to liave been 
written when the author was sixteen years of age. 



THE LYRE. 

There was a lyre, 'tis said, that hung 

High waving in the summer air ; 
An angel hand its chords had strung. 

And left to breathe its music there. 
Each wandering breeze, that o'er it flew. 

Awoke a wilder, sweeter strain 
Than ever shell of mermaid blew 

In choral grottos of the main. 
When, springing from the rose's bell, 

Where all night he had sweetlj' slept. 
The zephyr left the flowery dell 



MILTON WARD. ]27 



Bright with the tears that morning wept, 
He rose, and o'er the trem])ling lyre 

Waved lightly his soft, azure wing ; 
What touch such music could inspire ! 

What harp such lays of J03' could ring ! 
The murmurs of the shaded rills. 

The birds, that sweetly warbled by, 
And the soft echo from the hills 

Were heard not where that heart was nigh. 
When the last light of fading da}-, 

Along the bosom of the west. 
In colors softly mingled, lay, 

While night had darken'd all the rest. 
Then, softer than that fading light. 

And sweeter than the lay that rung 
Wild through th^ silence of the night, 

As solemn Philomela sung. 
That harp its plaintive murmurs sighed 

Along the dewy breeze of even ; 
So clear and soft they swelled and died 

They seemed the echoed songs of heaven. 
Sometimes, when all the air was still, 

And not the poplar's foliage trembled, 
That harp was nightly heard to trill 

With tones no earthly tones resembled. 
And then, upon the moon's pale beams, 

Unearthly' forms were seen to stray, 
Whose Starr}' pinions' trembling gleams 

Would oft around the wild harp pla}-. 
But soon the bloom of summer tied, 

In earth and air it shone no more : 
Each flower and leaf fell pale and dead. 

While skies their wintry sternness wore. 
One day, loud blew the northern blast, — 

The tempest's fury raged along ; 
Oh ! for some angel, as they passed,' 

To shield the harp of heavenly song ! 
It shrieked — how could it bear the touch, 

The cold rude touch of such a storm, 
When e'en the zephyr seemed too nnich 

Sometimes, though always light and warm ! 
It loudl}' shrieked — but ah ! in vain ; 

The savage wind more fircely Ijlew ; 
Once more — it never shrieked again. 

For every chord was torn in two. 
It never thi-illed with anguish more, 



128 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Though beaten b}' the wildest blast ; 
The pang, that thus its bosom tore, 

Was dreadful — but it was the last. 
And though the smiles of summer played 

Gently upon its shattered form, 
And the light zephyrs o'er it strayed. 

That lyre they could not wake nor warm. 



Joijn |i^ smarlantr. 

John H. Warland, was a native of Cambridge, Mass., and a graduate of Harvard 
College. He studied theology but never was ordained as a preacher. He remov- 
ed to Claremont and was editor of the National Eagle for seven years from its com- 
mencement. Leaving Claremont he went to Manchester and was editor of the 
American. Subsequently he removed to Lowell, Mass., and was editor of the Jour- 
nal. From that city lie removed to Boston and became connected with the Atlas. 
He was insane the last twenty years of his life, and died at an asylum in Taunton, 
Mass. Ho puliUshed a volun^e entitled "The Plume," containing prose and poetry. 
Mr. Warland was a man of keen sensibilities, and an able writer. The loss of his 
young and beloved wife, wliile living in Claremont, seemed to cast a shade over his 
after life. He was a good poet, as will be seen by the poems here presented. 



SUMMER. 

"Welcome, sweet summer, to the earth once more. 
To the bright rivers and the woodland bowers ; 

No bride such gay and brilliant robes e'er wore. 
When love and beauty graced her bridal hours. 

As thou, while lawn and hill thou trippest o'er. 
Braiding thy chaplet of young leaves and flowers. 

Earth owns thy beautj' as with step of pride 

Thou comest now, so like a blooming bride. 

Sweet daises line the margin of the rills, 

The mountain brooks and the broad inland streams ; 
Violets bloom upon the verdant hills 

With thousands tints, in summer's glorious beams ; 
The blue-bird at thy coming early trills 

His song, and goldfinch shows the brilliant gleams 
Of his gay plumage, as he sends his note 
Warbled to thee in sweetness from his throat. 

The trees for thee put on their dress of green. 

Their silken tresses and their coronals 
Of blossoms, and new buds, when thou art seen 

Robed like a fair}^ in her princely halls ; 
The wild flower springeth where thy step hath been, 

And on thy path a wreath of roses falls, 
Strewn there to give thee all their sweet perfume, 
As thou didst pass in thy young virgin bloom. 



JOHN B. WARLAND. i29 



And thou art welcome, were it but to hear 

New P^ngland's pride, the robin, sing his song ; 

His old familiar perch, the garden near, 

He seeks at dawn, and trills his music long ; 

The old man wakes, and knows his notes, so dear 
And sweet his old remembrances among ; 

Ere 3-et liis window lets in morning's beams. 

How oft that song hath broke upon his dreams ! 

Thou sweet, midsummer breeze ! how welcome thou 
To earth and all her living things once more ; 

Viewless, yet felt, there's healing with thee now 
As the sick couch at eve thou breathest o'er ; 

And thou art welcome to the healthy brow. 
Delightful voyager ! welcome to the shore — 

Thy summer bark skims lightly o'er the sea, 

With frieght more precious than rich argosy. 

The student feels thee in his smok}- cell. 

As o'er the page he bends, so pale and weak, 

His eye chained down as if beneath a spell ; 
He feels thee gently coming to the cheek, 

Fresh bloom to bring, and weariness dispel. 
Kissing his brow, and wooing him to seek 

The forest path, the cove and breezy rivers, 

Ere 3-et the sunbeam on the mountain quivers. 

At morn the grey old man doth leave his home, 
And lean upon his staff to feel thee blow — 

He bares his forehead now, as thou dost come 
And part the hoary locks from off his brow — 

How sweet to liim ! he blesses thee as some 
Kind, watching spirit, sent to spread the glow 

Of youth's bright tint his cheeks and temples o'er, 

And kindle 3outh's pure feelings up once more. 

The virgin seeks her summer bower for thee 
To sport th}' fingers with her tresses fair ; 

She feels thy cool breath to her cheeks come free, 
And in sweet dalliance wave her flowing hair ; 

Thou stealest sweet perfume from the blooming tree, 
Kissest her cheek and spreadest crimson there. 

Delicious breeze ! she hails thee to her bower, 

And woos thy coming in soft evening hour. 

But thou, with all thy glorious scenes, wilt fall 
Into the tomb of Autumn, and wilt die. 



130 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

O'er thee, as shrouded in thy dreary pall 
The cold and piercing winter wind will sigh, 

Each 3'ear shalt thou come forth again, till al' 
Earth's seasons die — so to eternity, 

Triumphant from the chambers of the tomb, 

Man will rise radiant with celestial bloom. 



THE DUMB CHILD. 

She is my onl}- girl, 
I asked for her as some most precious thing ; 
For all unfinished was Love's jewelled ring. 

Till set with this soft pearl ! 
The shadow that time brought forth I could not see 
How pure, how perfect seemed the gift to me ! 

Oh ! rnany a soft old tune 
I used to sing unto that deafened ear. 
And suffered not the slightest footstep near, 

Lest she might wake too soon ; 
And hushed her brothers' laughter while she lay. 
Ah ! needless care ! I might have let them plaj-. 

'Twas long ere I believed 
That this one daughter might not speak to me ; 
Waited and watched — God knows how patiently ! 

How willingly deceived. 
Vain Love was long the untiring nurse of Faith, 
And tended Hope until it starved to death. 

Oh ! if she could but hear 
For one short hour, till I her tongue might teach 
To call me mother, in the broken speech 

That thrills the mother's ear ! 
Alas ! those sealed lips never may be stirred 
To the deep music of that holy word ! 

M}' heart it sorely tries, 
To see her kneel with such a reverent air 
Beside her brothers at their evening prayer ; 

Or lift those earnest eyes 
To watch our lips as though our words she knew, 
Then move her own, as she was speaking, too. 

I've watched her looking up 
To the bright wonder of a sunset sky. 
With such a depth of meaning in her eye, 



JOHN H. WARLAND. \:^i 

That 1 could almost hope 
The struggling soul would burst its binding cords, 
And tlie long pent up thoughts flow forth in words. 

The song of bird and bee, 
The chorus of tlie breezes, streams and groves, 
All the grand music to which Nature moves, 

Are wasted melodj' 
To her ; the world of sound a tuneless void ; 
While even silence has its charms destroyed. 

Her face is ver}' fair ; 
Her blue eyes beautifid ; of finest mould 
The soft white brow, o'er which, in waves of gold 

Kipples her shining hair. 
Alas ! this lovely temple closed must be. 
For He who made it keeps the master key. 

Wills He the mind within 
Should from earth's Babel clamor be kept free. 
E'en that His still, small voice and step might be 

Heard, at its inner shrine. 
Through that deep hush of soul, with clearer thrill ? 
Then should 1 grieve? O, murmuring heart, be still ! 

She seems to have a sense 
Of quiet gladness, and in noiseless play ; 
She hath a pleasant smile, a gentle way, 

Whose voiceless eloquence 
Touches all hearts, though I had once the fear 
That even her father would not care for her. 

Thank God it is not so ! 
And when his sons are 2)laying merrily. 
She comes and leans her head upon his knee. 

O, at such times, I know. 
By his full eye, and tones subdued and mild. 
How his heart yearns over his silent child. 

Not of all gifts bereft, 
Even now. How could I say she did not speak? 
What real language lights her eye and cheek, 

And renders thanks to Him who left 
Unto her soul yet open avenues 
For joy to enter, and for love to use ! 

And God in love doth give 
To her defect a beauty of its own ; 
And we a deeper tenderness have known 



132 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Through that for which we grieve. 
Yet shall the seal be melted from her ear ; 
Yea, and m}' voice shall fill it — but not here. 

When that new sense is given 
What rapture will its first experience be, 
That never woke to meaner melod}^ 

Than the rich songs of heaven — 
To hear the full-toned anthem swelling round, 
While anoels touch the ecstacies of sound ! 



LINES 

ON THE DEATH OF CHARLES J. FOX. 

The scholar's brilliant light is dim, 

And on his brow Death's signet set : 
Oh, man}' an eye that welcomed him, 

With sorrow's burning tears is wet ; 
His was a noble heart and true — 

His was the strong and gifted mind ; 
And Fame and Love around him threw 

Their wreaths, with choicest flowers entwined. 

His mind lay like a gem within 

A fretted and a slender frame. 
Which oft it buoj-ed to health again. 

Unknowing whence the healing came. 
The jewel through the casket frail. 

Shone with a clear and perfect ray. 
As if its light would never pale 

Before e'en Death's triumphant sway. 

He wore away — no lovelier clime 

With fair}' scenes and gentle breeze — 
The grandeur of the ocean chime, 

Italia's skies nor India's seas — 
Not these could brace his wasting frame, 

Nor home with all its memories dear, 
But calmly, when the summons came. 

His soul soared to a brighter sphere. 

His was the scholar's gentleness, 

"The faculty and power divine," 
Which leave on all their strong impress. 

And glow in every thought and line. 



LEWIS C. BROWNE. 133 



Truth found in him a champion, 

Clad in her armor burnished briglit— 

And error's clouds sank one by one, 
Before his clear, serener liglit. 

His was the Christian's lioliness, 

AVhose beautiful and placid ray 
Beamed on his soul, its flight to bless 

Along its bright celestial way — 
Undimmed in life's long, last eclipse, 

When love its midnight vigils ko[)t — 
When pressed to his her pale, pale lips, 

And gentle eyes above him wept. 

Tread lightly, where the scholar sleciis 

Within his cold and narrow bed, 
For one her bridal vigils keeps 

Above the wept and sainted dead, 
Tread lightly by his rural tonil). 

And o'er it plant the gentle flowers, 
Sweet symbols of his spirit's bloom 

In a far brighter laud than ours. 



HciMisi €. i3ro\Dnr. 

Rev. Lewis C. Browne was born in Montreal, Canada, March 8, 1810. Hi-i par- 
ents were natives of Massachusetts. They began tlioii- nianieil life in Vermont. 
Subsequeptl.v they sojourned for several years in Montreal. They returned to 
Vermontwhen Lewi? was but six months old. His boyhood was passed amid the 
fine scenery of Bennington. While he was but a child his father became insane, 
and the family of seven children, of which he was the sixth, was broken up and 
the children scattered, the two younger ones only rcniaiiiini; with the mother, who 
was a woman of good education and of line literary ta.-tcs and culture. At the 
ago of fourteen he went to I'tica, N. Y., to live with liis eldest Irother. In 1826 lio 
returned to Bennington and began "teaching school anil boarding around.*' Thi.' 
he made his principal occupation till he began to stu(ly for the ministry in 1,S"«. 
His ministry extended through a peri<id of forty years, more than ten of which were 
spent in Nashua, between IS!!! and li-.").!. Here" he built up a large society from very 
humble beginnings; dc\<i(ing himself, in the meantime, largely to 'the interests 
of common schools, in the l)<l^itions of Superintending Committee, County School 
.Commissioner, and member of the State Board of K<iucation. He was also one of 
the original members of the boards of Trustees of Tuft's College and St. Lawrence 
University. Aliout 1870 he found his sight failing Irom cataract. Becoming en- 
tirely blind in IS?.") he discontinued regular mini.^t( rial hdiors. though occa^ionallT 
preacldng extrmjiorr, nn iiiurizing hymns and Scriiiture rcaiiings. He siibse<|uenl- 
ly regained a degri'c <if sight by an operation on one eye. Of his poems here given, 
"Briers and Berries," \\lii('h ap])eared in 183.5, li;is been extensively copied, anil 
has been incorrectly attributed to "An English divine, residing in America." Mr. 
Browne resides at Honeove Falls, N. Y. 



brip:rs and berries. 

*T was on a cloudy, gloomj' day 
About tlie middle of Sei)tember, 
If rightly I the date remember — 

For certainly I cannot say, 



134 POETS OF NEW JTAMPSHJRE. 

When I, astride m}' pacing gray, 

Was plodding on my weary way 
To spend a night and preach the word 

To people who had never heard 
The Gospel, or to say the least, 
Had never viewed it as "a feast 

Of fat things full of marrow." 

In sadness as I rode along 

And crossed the silver Unadilla, 
The robin snng his plaintive song, 

And faintl}' drooped the ftiding lily. 
The smoky sky, no longer bine, 

Assnmed a dim and dusk}' gray. 
And autumn o'er my feelings threw 

The coloring of its own deca}', 
And I almost forgot the words 
Of Him who preached of flowers and birds — 

The \[]y and the sparrow. 

I had been pondering o'er and o'er 

The trials of the travelling preacher ; 
The heav}' burdens that he bore — 

In carrying truth to every creature ; 
His wearied brain and frame worn down 

Emaciated and dyspeptic ; 
The hardened bigot's iron frown ; 

The jest of scoffer and of skeptic ; 
One mocking revelation's page, 

Another ridiculing reason ; 
And the rude storms he must engage 

And all inclemencies of season. 

In this despondent, sombre mood 

I rode perhaps a mile or two. 
When lo ! beside the way there stood' 

A little girl with eyes of blue. 
Light hair, and lips as red as cherries ; 

And through the briers with much ado 
She wrought her way to pick the berries, 

Quoth I, "My little girl, it seems 
To me you buy 3'our berries dear, 

For down your hand are red blood streams, 
And dovvn your cheek there rolls a tear," 

"O yes," said she, "but then you know 

There will be briers where berries grow." 



LEWIS C. BROWNE. 135 

These words came home with keen rebuke 

To me, disturbed b_y petty jostles, 
And brought to mind the things tliat Luke , 

Has written of the old apostles 

AVlio faced the world without a fear, 

And counted even life not dear. 
And since, from that good hour to this, 

In sunny, dark, or stormy weather, 
I still reflect that woe and bliss 

In life's deep cup are found together. 
Come smiling friend or frowning foe ; 
"There will be briers where berries grow." 



A SONG OF AGE. 

When the sun no longer shines 

Through the distant mountain pines. 
And the evening's cooling shadows gather darkly o'er the land, 

For the day we do not weep, 

As the darkness briugeth sleep, 
And its healing rest is welcome to the weary brain and hand. 

So when life's short da}' is o'er. 

And we toil and ache no more, 
But from wasting care and sorrow find a respite and release, 

AVhy should mortals make lament 

That the sands of time are spent? 
For surely the decline of life should be a time of peace. 

When the autumn of the 3'ear 

Shows a landscape dull and drear. 
Leaves thickly clothe the forest ground and birds no longer sing, 

The worn earth is not unblest, 

For tired nature needeth rest, 
And, folded in her snowy robe, she slumbereth till spring. 

When the bloom of life is lost. 

And we feel the later frost. 
And like the ripened foliage we must wither, fade and fall, 

Let the Christian murmur not. 

But accept the common lot, 
And bow resigned and loyal to the law that ruleth all. 

Death and niglit shall pass away, 

Leaving life and cloudless da}', 
And through a purer atmosphere shall beam celestial light. 

On that verdant, sunny shore 

Shall be njusic evermore. 
No winter in that vernal clime, and no autumnal blight. 



13G POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

TEACHING SCHOOL AND BOARDING AROUND. 

My thoughts go back to the rosy prime, 

And memory paints anew the scenes 
Afar in the bleak New England clime, 

Though half a centur3' intervenes, 
On a highwa}' corner the school-house stands 

Under an elm tree broad and tall, 
And rollicking children in laughing bands 

Come at the master's warning call. 
The}' pile together their sleds and skates, 

Hang hats and hoods in the entry-way. 
And gathering pencils, books and slates. 

Diligent studj' succeeds to pla^'. 
A mountain steam turns a gray stone mill, 

That runs with a low and slumberous sound ; 
And there in fancy I wander still. 

Teaching school and boarding around. 

Near by is a farmhouse large and square. 

With doors and casements of faded red, 
A stoop that shades from the summer glare. 

And wood well piled in the sheltering shed, 
There's an ancient barn with swallow-holes 

High in the gable, three in a line ; 
The lithe bay colt in the deep snow rolls, 

From racks of hay feed the docile kine. 
Closel}' are huddled the timorous sheep 

As the flails resound on the threshing floor, 
The pilfering poultry stealthily creep 

And silently watch at the open door 
For each stray kernel of shelling grain. 

Full of content was the lot I found 
Among the farm-folk, honest and plain, 

Teaching school and boarding around. 

The farmer's table has lavish supplies : 

Chicken and sausage of flavor rare, 
Crullers and cookies and puddings and pies 

Are items rich in the bill of fare. 
The teacher sleeps in a wide, soft bed 

Kept clean for guests in the great spare room. 
With gay chintz curtains over his head. 

And blankets wove in the old hand loom. 
The thrift}' wife, ere the break of da}', 

Springs from her rest though the morn is cool, 



LEWIS C. BROWNE. 137 

And breakfast ended we haste awa}'' 

O'er the shining crust to the district school. 

Here morals are pure and manners sincere, 
And men in church and in state renowned 

Have made the first step in a grand career 
Teaching school and boarding around. 

In the moonlight evening long and still 

The jouth assemble from many a farm, 
Tliough the air without is crisp and chill, 

There's a bright wood fire and a welcome warm, 
Walnuts and apples are passed around. 

The liands of the clock get a backward turn. 
Innocent frolic and mirth abound 

Till low in their sockets tlie candles burn. 
Young men and maidens of artless wa3-s 

Are (h'awn together in groups like this ; 
Their hands are joined in the rural plays 

And sweet lips meet in the guileless kiss. 
Twin hearts are linked with a golden chain. 

And love with marriage is earl}' crowned. 
How oft in dreams I am there again, 
" Teaching school and boarding around. 



THREESCORE AND TEN. 

"Our age to seventy' years is set :" 
'Twas so the sacred l3-rist snug, 

I've crossed that boundary, and yet 
My inner being seemeth j'oung. 

I feel no wrinkles on the heart. 

Time has not chilled the social glow, 

Music and chastened mirtli impart 
Their pleasiug spell of long ago. 

The birds that carol at the dawn. 

The bees that through the clover swarm, 

And children playing on the lawn. 
For me have lost no earl}- charm. 

Science, invention, art and song, 
The life and progress of the age,. 

The warfi\re with the false and wrong 
That patriots and Christians wage, 

All that promotes the weal of men. 
Or helps them on their upward way, 



138 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Attract me at threescore and ten 
As under life's meridian ray. 

And though mj eyo. is doubly dim, 
And natural force begins to wane — 

Less strong of arm and lithe of limb — 
Still thought and memory remain. 

But early friends of whom I dream, 
Are growing fewer 3'ear by }'ear, 

And if I linger I shall seem 
A lone belated stranger here. 

The friendly deference I meet 

From younger travellers near and far, 

When crossing o'er the crowded street, 
Or stepping from the halted car, 

Reminds me that the Alpine snow 
Has drifted over brow and beard ; 

'Tis sweet to be beloved, I know. 
But solemn thus to be revered. 

It tells me that the houV is near, 
Although in love deferred so long. 

When I from earth shall disappear 
And mingle with the silent throng. 

But earth will smile as gay and green 
And heaven still shine in gold and blue, 
. When I have vanished from the scene, 
And friends will soon their calm renew. 

How little good we can achieve 

With all the foils encountered here ; 

Then it were weak and vain to grieve 
When passing to a purer sphere. 

New ranks will rush with deed and thought 
To bear the moral standard high ; 

And the small good that I have wrought 
Has taken root and cannot die. 

And on this truth I rest my heart ; 

Since all to future life aspire. 
He who implanted will not thwart 

This inborn, deathless, pure desire. 



JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE. 139 

As the long-vo3'aging Genoese 

To the new world he sought drew near, 

The bahii of flowers borne on the breeze 
Came from the land his faith to cheer, — 

So when we near the Eden shore, 

Before its hills of light are seen, 
The fragrance of its peace comes o'er 

The narrow sea that flows between. 



James jf rccman ^lavixc. 

Rev. James Freeman Clarke was born in Hanover, April 4, ISIO. He graduated 
at Harvard College in 182!t, and at Cambridge Divinity School in 18:i3. He was 
pastor of a society in Louisville, Ky., from 1833 to 1S40, when he returned to Bos- 
ton, and became highly popular as a preacher. He is author of several volumes 
of sermons, ami is a poet of solid merit. 

THE SHIP. 

Look not for art where idle brows • 

Dream distant from the throng. 
But where the rushing stream of men 

Impetuous rolls along ; 
Not where the rich with Gothic roofs 

And Doric pillars pla}-. 
But where the tempest sweeps our shores — 

Look out on Boston Bay ! 

There floats the gem of modern art, 

By no Palladio planned. 
The architecture of the sea. 

Unrivalled on the land. 
The storms have moulded ever}- curve 

To beauty's perfect line, 
The waters rounded ever}- part 

To symmetry divine. 

The winds and waves, wild masters they, 

The just proportion taught, 
And with the safety- and the speed. 

The Graces came, unsought. 
Can those who l)uilt the Parthenon, 

Or Strasburg's Minster, dare 
Their clumsy walls with this fair form 

In beaut}' to compare? 

She sits so stately on the wave, 
So gracefully she bends, 



140 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Leans from the breeze, and from her prow 

Tlie rippling music sends ; 
And when the airs come fresh from land, 

Her sails all drawing free, 
She skims so light, with pinions white, 

The darling of the sea ! 



TRIFORMIS DIANA. 

So pure her forehead's dazzling white, 

So swift and clear her radiant ej'es, 
Within the treasure of whose light 

La_y undeveloped destinies, — 
Of thoughts repressed such hidden store 

Was hinted b}' each flitting smile, 
I could but wonder and adore ; 

Far off, in awe, I gazed the while. 

I gazed at her, as at the moon. 
Hanging in lustrous twilight skies. 

Whose virgin crescent, sinking soon. 
Peeps through the leaves before it flies. 

Untouched Diana, flitting dim. 

While sings the wood its evening hymn. 

Again we met. O, joyful meeting ! 

Her radiance now was all for me. 
Like kind!}' airs her kindly greeting. 

So full, so musical, so free. 
Within romantic forest aisles, 

Within romantic paths we walked, 
I bathed me in her sister smiles, 

I breathed her beauty as we talked. 

So full-orbed C3'nthia walks the skies, 
Filling the earth with melodies, 

Even so she condescends to kiss 

Drows3' Endj'niions, coarse and dull, 

Or fills our waking souls with bliss, 
Making long nights too beautiful. 

O, fair but fickle lady-moon, 

Wh}' must thy full form ever wane ? 

O, love ! O, friendship ! why so soon 
Must 3'our sweet light recede again ? 

I wake me in the dead of night. 

And start — for through the misty gloom 



JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE. U\ 

Red Hecate stares — a boding sight ! — 
Loolvs in, but never fills my room. 

Thou music of my boyhood's hour ! 

Thou shining light on manhood's way ! 
No more dost thou fair influence shower 

To move my soul by night or da}'. 
O, strange ! that while in hall and street 

Thy hand I touch, thy grace 1 meet. 
Such miles of polar ice should part 

The slightest touch of mind and heart ! 
But all thy love has waned, and so 

I gladly let thy beauty go. 



THE POET. 

Extract from a Phi Beta Kappa Poem delivered in 1846. 

Nor think the poet's highest task, in our more earnest age. 

To entertain, with silk}- strain, or fill an album's page ; 

For, as the flower precedes the fruit, the fruit attends the seed, 

So poetry, the flower of life, consorts with thought and deed. 

The poet is a warrior, doing battle for his kind — 

The poet is a hero, with a spirit unconfined ; 

A lyric fount shall burst from earth, and foam out free and far. 

When great Ideas arm themselves for spiritual war. 

With noble form and gleaming eye, I see the heroic child, 

With no low thought polluted, and with spirit undefiled, 

As angel pure, but passionate — a mountain-torrent bold, 

Whose leap is like a flashing flame, whose touch is icy cold. 

Him, our whole land shall nourish long, him shall all Nature 

teach ; 
The melodies of woods and winds shall harmonize his speech ; 
The lofty forest's lights and shades and multitude of hues, 
Into his face a sylvan grace sliall quietly infuse. 
Thoughts deep and calm the cnves shall lend, where, winding 

dark below. 
Through many a labyrinthine mile mysteriously they go. 
There ancient Silence, undisturbed, holds her eternal reign — 
Unheard, the thunders roll above — unheard, the hurricane. 
The grass}' prairie rolling wide, a boundless flower}' sea. 
Swept by unfettered breezes oft, shall make his soul more free. 
And where the solemn mountains breathe the chill}' morning air, 
And wreaths of climbing vapor-clouds around their shoulders 

wear. 
Far looking toward the breaking day, bathed in its earliest beam. 



U2 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

While misty night still sleeps below, on valle}', wood, and stream, 
His soul shall tower toward God and truth, and catch the first 

bright ray 
Which o'er the sleeping nations conies, to wake a nobler day. 
Or where the ocean rushes up, and breaks in shattering shock. 
Deep covering with tumultuous waves the lone outstanding rock ; 
Then, batfled hy the unyielding foe, falls otf and rolls away, 
Along the shore, with sullen roar, defeated of its prey — 
The plainl}' speaking emblem shall instruct him to oppose 
'Y\\Q firm, calm front of reason, to the passion of his foes. 
Thus armed, and thus accomplished, in tiui, shall be combined 
All energies of thought and heart, all grace of form and mind. 
Then free from selfishness and fear, and ready for the strife. 
He on the battle-ground of truth, shall dedicate his life 
To conflict nobler far than that where through the smoke was seen 
The squadron's charge, while iron death poured down the Palm 

Ravine. 
Far worthier shall this battle be, more terrible the blows. 
When thoughts deep-rooted in the m'ind contend as deadly foes. 
Then fall the ancient dogmas, and the lies long sanctified. 
And frauds, which, throned as customs, have both God and man 

defied — 
Such heroes we ma}' hope to see, when from our people's veins 
The brute and savage instincts pass, and but the man remains. 



Caroline <©rne. 

Mrs Orne, whose name, previous to marriage, was Chaplin, was a native of 
Georgetown, Mass. She became the wife of Henry H. Orne, a lawyer, and remov- 
ed to Wolfeborough. She manifested a taste for writing when young. At ten years 
of age slie wrote stories, and at sixteen a song which was very popular before it 
was known who wrote it. She died in Bellingham, Mass., June 21, 1SS2. 



SABBATH EVENING. 

'Tis the eve of the Sabbath ; all is so still 

That the wing of the bird, as it flies to its nest, 

Sends forth a low rustle, and sweet murmurs thrill 

On the ear, though the earth and the winds are at rest, 

Like music that flows from the harp's golden strings, 

When swept hy some spirit's invisible wings. 

Even yonder white cloud, in the fair evening sky, 
Its bosom just tinged with the hue of the rose, 

As it moves, like a fairy sail, noiselessly' by. 

Has a look that partakes of the Sabbath's repose ; 

But the calm and the stillness, more holj' than all, 

Are those o'er the spirit that silently fall. 



i 



CAROLINE ORNE. 143 



As the flower, pale and drooping, doth heavenward turn, 
When the da3-'s garish splendor no more meets the eye, 

And while the fresh dewdrops steal into its urn, 
Its perfume gives out to the breeze floating by, 

From our hearts may the incense of praise, this blest hour, 

Flow forth like the fragrance that breatlies from the flower, 



THE EXILE. 

Dear home of my childhood ! the mem'ries j'c bring 
To my heart at this lone hour of night, 

Come soft as if borne on some bird's downy wing. 
Just returned from its heavenward flight. 

Bright and holy's the spell o'er m}' spirit that's thrown. 

As I list the low voice of the wind. 
For in its faint whispers I dream there's a tone, 

Like the voices of friends left behind. 

But the spell that so deep o'er m}- spirit was cast 

Like the mist of the morning is gone, 
And the fairy-like scene that had pictured the past 

From my still longing sight is withdrawn. 

Lo ! I turn to the star I so used to love, when 
I watched with dear friends its pure ray — 

O, could I gaze nightly like that on the glen, 
Where I used in my childhood to stray — 

See the cottage, mid vines and mid trees peeping out. 

Like a bird in its reed- woven nest, 
And hear the rich laugh, and clear, merr}^ shout 

Of the golden-haired girl I loved best ; 

Could I see by her side, those, m}- other dear friends, 

AVhose hearts are all mingled in one. 
As the drop from the skies, with its sister drop blends. 

Till all in the same channel run. 

For the home of mj- childhood no more would I pine, 
When the curtain of night o'er me closes, 

Which beneath the old elm, and the shadowy vine, 
In the heart of the green glen reposes. 

Yet, still, like a flower-woven zone, would I bind 

Its memories close round my heart, 
And the cold hand of death alone should unwind 

The links which of life make a part. 



144 POETS OB' NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

THE HEART'S GUESTS. 

When age has cast its shadows 

O'er life's declining way, 
When evening twilight gathers 

Round our retiring day, 
Then sliall we sit and ponder 

Upon the shadow}' past. 
In the heart's silent chamber 

The guests will gather fast. 

Guests that in 3-outh we cherished 

Shall come to us once more, 
And we shall hold communion 

As in the days of yore. 
The}' may be dark and sombre, 

They ma}' be bright and fair. 
But the heart will have its chamber, 

The guests will gather there. 

How shall it be, my sisters? 

Who shall be our hearts' guests? 
How shall it be, my brothers. 

When life's shadow on us rests? 
Shall we not mid the silence 

Hear voices sweet and low, 
Speak the old familiar language, 

The words of long ago ? 

Shall we not see dear ftices, 

Sweet smiling as of old. 
Till mists of that lone chamber 

Are sunset clouds of gold. 
When age has cast its shadows 

O'er life's declining way. 
And evening twilight gathers 

Round our retiring day ? 



Jo|)n ©rccnleaf Sltrams. 

Rev. John G. Adams was born in Portsmouth, July 30, 1810. His early training 
by a religious mother was such that he was not acquainted with the doctrines of 
tile church in which he was afterwards a minister until he was 18. At this age 
he was a resident at Exeter, and there became a convert to the Universalist faith. 
His first sermon was preached in Westbi'ook, Me., January 29, 1832. After preach- 
ing and studying most of tliat year, he removed to Runiuey, where he was ordain- 
ed in June 1S33. He worked as a missionary in the northern part of New Hamp- 
shire until the autumn of 1836, when he became pastor of the Universalist Church 
in Claremont; and, after a ministry of fifteen months there, he removed to Maiden, 
Mass., where he had a pastorate of fifteen years. During his residence in New 



JOHN OREENLEAF ADAMS. 145 

Hampshire he was editor of the'SSiar in the £:as<," a Universalist weekly, issued at 
Oncord lor three and a half years. From Maiden he removed to Worcester, 
Mass., where he ministered seven years; thence to Providence, K. I., where he 
tarried five years; thence to Lowell, Mass., where, after a ministry of six and a 
half years, he resigned, and was a minister at large dining one or two years. 
After a pastorate of three vears in Cincinnati, O., he rcturiud to New England, 
and settled in his own home at Melrose Highlands, Mass , where ho now resides. 
While here he has had five vears of supply preaching in A listen and Kast Boston. 
In addition to his constant work as a jiaslor he has publisluMl fifteen vohunes of 
different sizes, besides pamphlets and tracts, and has edited Sunday School period- 
icals for twenty-two years. 



GOD'S ANGELS. 

God's angels ! not onl}- on high do they sing, 
And soar through the skies with invisible wing ; 
But here, on the earth, where in wretchedness lie 
Its sin-stricken children to struggle and die, 

Thej- come, in their mere}- and power, to dispel 
The spectres of gloom from the prisoner's cell ; 
In love's name to say to the stricken one there, 
That God still will hear and give answer to prayer. 

And strong grows the heart of the outcast, and soon 
In that dim prison come the pure light-gleams of noon ; 
The resolve and the faith of the sinner forgiven 
Send him back to the world with a heart seeking heaven. 

God's angels ! Love speed them o'er earth's wide domain, 
New aids to impart, and new triumphs to gain ; 
Till the wrathful and wrong from our world shall retire, 
And humanity's groans in her praises expire. 

For the promise of truth, though the doubting deu}-, 
Is that love shall prevail in the earth as on high, 
Its life-waters healing, wherever they flow, 
With the angels above, or the angels below. 



HEAVEN HERE. 

Heaven is here ; its hymns of gladness 
Cheer the true believer's way. 

In this world where sin and sadness 
Often change to night our day. 

Heaven is here ; where misery lightened 

Of its heavy load is seen. 
Where the face of sorrow brightened 

By the deed of love hath been. 



146 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Where the bound, the poor, despairing 
Are set free, supplied and blest. 

Where, in others' anguish sharing, 
We can find our surest rest. 

Where we heed the voice of duty 
Rather than man's praise or rod ; 

This is heaven, its peace, its beauty, 
Radiant with the smile of God. 



STRIVE TO MAKE THE WORLD BETTER. 

Strive to malce the world better ! — this, this is the duty 

Proclaimed to each mortal in truth every hour ; 
Call not its wrong, right, — its deformity, beauty : 

In the midst of its weakness, remember God's power, 
And, though in a minute no wrong can be righted, 

Think not of contentment with just what you see : 
The world needs repentance, where souls are so blighted ; 

And what it is now is not what it must be ! 

"Take the world as it is !" To be sure, if such taking 

Will win you the heart of a brother, or lend 
A soft word or kind look that shall, haply, be making 

Some ruin-bound pilgrim his life-ways amend. 
If to praise it shall call thee, or sutfering, or prayer, 

To discipline such as may strengthen \hj heart, — 
Be thankful for this, every way, but beware 

Lest thy world-taking lesson be learned but in part ? 

"Take the world as it is !" So the world's honored sages 

Of many a clime have consented and taught ; 
So walked with mankind the true Guide of all ages ; 

So lived his apostles, and labored and wrought, — 
Yet not to be easy with present attainments, 

Assenting to evil in lullaby song, 
But, rather, to startle, with Truth's strong arraignments, 

The victims of sin and the lovers of wrong ! 

"Take the world as it is !" How the slothful and sleeping 

Have ever consented these words to obey ! 
Conservator dolts still their sluggish steps keeping, 

And fearing the angel Reform in their way ! 
The selfish observer of manners and men, 

Who would never offend by his arrant fault-finding. 
Provided his own ends are answered — and then. 

All the world is but good, and its faults not worth minding ! 



ESTHER WALBEN BARNES. U; 



Strive to make the world better ! How true to this aim 

Have the heroes of Right kept their wa}' in the i)ast : 
'Mid tlie world's accusations, through dungeon and Hame, 

Abroad have the seeds of their greatness been east I 
And we have the harvest, — their word have we, too. 

That the seed-ti.me for us is to-day ! Let it be 
That the Avovld we now luue, though so goodly to view, 

Is not that improved one to-morrow shall see ! 



Miss Barnes is a native, and lias boon all her life a resident, of Portsmouth. 
Her fatlier was by birth a Swede, the only son ofauolUcer in the Swedish army. 
lie was born in 1776 in Gottenburg, Sweden, and from that memorable year, seemed 
to have imbibed a love lor, and a loiigiiij; to see America. On his arrival in this 
country, in early youth, he was persuaded by a clergy-man, with whom he was a 
great favorite, to change his name from Ludwig Baarnhielm to Ijcwis Barnes, for 
greater convenience in pronuncialinn. In 1800 he became a residi nt of Portsmouth, 
where he was long a shipping merchant, much respected in the community, and ideu- 
tilied with all the interests of the place. His name was a symonyni for truth, honor 
and integrity. The mother of Miss l'>arncs was of remote English descent. She was 
born in 1783. Both parents were patriotic to an unusual degree. Her father never 
wearied of reading the lives of our revolutionary heroes, always declaring that 
they wei-e men inspired with supernatural power for that emergency, and raised up 
by the Almighty for the salvation of our country. Miss Barnes has published, in 
l)apers, annuals, and magazintjs, a considerable amount of prose and verse, all of a 
very creditable character. She has also published several volumes for the young. 



FOR MEMORIAL DAY. 

Rest, heroes rest ! all conflicts now are ended, 
Rest, with the martyr's crown upon each brow : 
While grateful hearts and loving hands are trailing 
Flowers of the summer o'er the green turf now. 
p'resh is the memoiy of your deeds of daring, 
Oh, bold, brave hearts ! that rest beneath the sod ; 
And we will keep it Iresh, with floral incense, — 
A spring-time olfering of the gifts of God ; 

Rest, warriors rest. 

Ye cannot die, while 3'et your memory liveth, 
Unseen, w^iere sacred thoughts are set apart ; 
Nor can your names from out Time's record perish 
While they are written on a nation's heart ! 
Your blood has washed from oflT our country's banner. 
The deep, dark stain of Slavery's cruel wrong : 
And now, "•the stars and stripes" more fltly symI)ol 
The "land of freedom" breathed in verse and song. 

Rest, heroes rest ! 

Your lives j'ou've laid upon j-our country's altar, — 
A bleeding sacrifice, by land and sea — 
And we shall never let the memoiy perish, 
Of deeds deserving immortality. 



148 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

The roll of drum, the bugle-note, the clarion, 
No more shall call 3'ou to the field of strife ; 
But this "Memorial Da}'," to future ages. 
Shall tell how Libert}' was bought with Life ! 

Rest, patriots, rest ! 



EASTER CAROL. 

'Tis "of thine own we give Thee," gracious God ! 
Flowers of the spring-time ! ofl'eriugs from the sod. 
Tinted by thine own hand, with rainbow dyes. 
Or with the gold and blue of sunset skies ; 
Of all earth's boundless gifts, to Thee we bring 
Nought that is holier, as an offering. 

Oh ! glorious symbols of the Easter morn ! 

Out of decay, and death, and darkness born : 

Springing to light and life, from out the tomb 

'Of nature's desolation, sadness, gloom ; 

Ye come, sweet flowers ! with fragrance pure and rare, 

'To blend 3'our incense with the breath of praj'er. 

Christ hath arisen, "with healing in His wings." 

Ye have arisen, O, bright and beauteous things ! 

To tell us of that resurrection morn, 

When we, immortal, from the grave new born, 

With bodies glorified, to life shall rise, 

And meet the Saviour in the bendino; skies. 



This writer resides in New Providence, New Jersey. Slie was born in Ports- 
moutli, in 1811. Her life has been uneventful, having thus far been passed at 
home with her family. 



FROM YOUTH TO MANHOOD. 

Lift up thine eye, the field of life before thee 

Smiles in the glory of its summer day ; 
Rough paths are these, but flowers sweet and lowly. 

Lift their fair petals cheering all the way. 

Gather thou these — their form, their hue, their wreathing 
Make solemn impress on the grateful heart ; 

Each cup of joy is purer for their breathing, 
And for each grief they can a balm impart. 



LOUISA SIMES. 149 



Open thine heart — around, within are glowing 
The blessed halos of all circling love ; 

Awake — arise — so the glad stream o'erflowing 
Shall lave with tribute where its waters move. 

Stretch forth thy hand, the ever whitening harvest 
Pours its fair promise where the worker hies ; 

Glean and dispense. The spirit true and earnest 
Garners the shining wreath of earth and skies. 

Unvail tl\y soul for full and free expansion, 
A child's devotion, and a brother's love — 

These make the pillars of that holy mansion. 
Waiting the faithful in our home above. 

Unvail thy soul — set thou no bound nor limit 
Of field or purpose to its white-winged flight; 

God {>rizeth every eftbrt of the spirit 
Out of the shadow up to truth and light. 



TO THE CLOUDS. 

Beautiful dust of the Great One's feet 
From glory to glory ye change, 
Like wafted curtains of some bright laud 
Where the glad in heart might range ! 

I love your floating beneath the skj', 

And giving your trust to earth. 
And your dreamy sleep on the face of the deep, 

Till the ripples leap with n)irth. 

Ye cradle the force of the wildest storm. 
And the zephyr's breath ya hold — 

There is fearful might, on your wing of night, 
And peace on your waves of gold. 

Ye are symbols to me of human life. 

Making tlie heavens above 
More pure and bright for 3'our shadowy light, 

More worthy the fulness of love. 

Ever the sunset path we near, 

AVlicre present and unseen meet — 

In garment as fair as the cloudlels wear 
Mav we rest at the Great One's feet ! 



150 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 



i^orarc Srecleg. 



Horace Greeley was born in Amherst, February 3, 1811. He learned the trade of 
a printer, in Poultney, Vermont. In 1H31 ho went to New York city where he labor- 
ed as ;i jiiurnevman. In I'^'i'i he M'ent into business on his own account. The next 
year lie aclded to liis establishment a newspapi'r, the New Yorker. In 1841 he com- 
menced the publication of the New York THfcjtoe, with which paper he was connect- 
ed (iurinj? the remainder of his life. He has been a member of Congress, and in 
1S7'2 was the Democratic candidate for the Presidency. He died Nov. 29, 1872. 



THE FADED STARS. 

I mind the time when heaven's high dome 

Woke in ray soul a wondrous thrill — 
When every leaf of Nature's tome 

Bespoke creation's marvels still ; 
When mountain cliff and sweeping glade, 

As morn unclosed her rosy bars, 
Woke joys intense, bat naught e'er bade 

M-j heart leap up, like you, bright stars, 

Calm ministrants to God's high gloiy ; 

Pure gems around His burning throne ; 
Mute watchers o'er man's strange, sad story 

Of crime and woe through ages gone ! 
'Twas 3-onrs the wild and hallowed spell 

That lured me from ignoble gleams — 
Taught me where sweeter fountains swell 

Than ever bless the worldling's dreams. 

How changed was life ! a waste no more, 

Beset by want, and pain, and wrong; 
Earth seemed a glad and fairy shore, 

Vocal with hope's inspiring song ; 
But, ye, bright sentinels of heaven. 

For glories of night's radiant sky, 
Who, as ye gemmed the brow of even, 

Have never dreamed man born to die. • 

'Tis faded now, that wondrous grace » 

That once on heaven's forehead shone ; 
I read no more in nature's face 

A soul responsive to my own. 
A dimness on my e^'e and spirit. 

Stern time has cast in liurrying by ; 
Few joys my hardier years inherit. 

And leaden diilness rules the sky. 

Yet mourn I not ; a stern, high dut3' 
Now nerves my arm and fires my brain ; 

Perish the dream of shapes of beauty. 
So that this strife be not in vain ; 



HORACE GREELEY. 151 

To war on fraud entranced with power, 
Or smooth pretence and specious wrong, 

This task be mine, though fortune lower ; 
For this be banished sk}- and song. 



DARKNESS OVER EARTH WAS SLEEPING. 

Darkness over earth was sleeping — 

Gathered gloom of thousand 3'ears, 
Since the Goths the Scythians sweeping. 

Drenched Rome's liearths in blood and tears. 
Dwarfed had grown man's mental stature ; 

Quenched was Genius' meteor blaze ; 
Ruined Art and savage Nature 

Spoke the reign of evil dajs. 

Thence evolved, one art's bright beaming, 

Owned no kindred with the hour ; 
From its birth a beacon gleaming — 

YoQ to fraud and tyrant's power. 
Glorious Faust ! be thine the praises, 

Workl-bestowed, for knowledge given ; 
Thine the spark whose watchfire blazes 

Radiant as the orb of heaven. 

Onward still that light is speeding ; 

Wider fall its cheering beams ; 
B}^ it truth's deep lessons reading. 

Waking millions bless its gleams. 
Glorious art ! thy children hail thee ; 

Tyrants only are tin' foes ; 
P^reedom's day-star ! naught shall pale thee — 

Dark was earth till printing rose. 



ON THE DEATH OF WILLIAM WIRT. 

Rouse not the muffled drum, 
Wake not the martial trum[)et's mournful sound 
For him whose mighty voice in death is dumb ; 
Who in the zenith of his high renown 

To the grave went down. 

Invoke no cannon's breath 
To swell the re(iuiem o'er his ashes poured — 
Silently bear him to the home of death ; 
The aching hearts by whom he was adored 

He won not with the sword. 



152 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

No ! Let affection's tear 
Be the sole tribute to liis memory' paid ; 
Earth has no monument so justly dear 
To souls like his in purity arrayed 

Never to fade. 

I loved thee, patriot chief; 
I battled proudly 'neath thy banner pure ; 
Mine is the breast of woe — the heart of grief, 
Which suffer on unmindful of a cure — 

Proud to endure. 

But vain the voice of wail 
For thee, from the dim vale of sorrow fled — 
Earth has no spell whose magic shall not fail 
To light the gloom that shrouds thy narrow bed, 

Or woo thee from the dead. 

Then take thy long repose 
Beneath the shelter of the deep green sod : 
Death but a brighter halo o'er thee throws ; 
Thy fame, th}' soul alike have spurned the clod ; 

Rest thee in God. 



FANTASIf:S. 

They deem me cold, the thoughtless and light-hearted. 

In that I worship not at Beauty's shrine : 
The}' deem me cold, that through the years departed, 

I ne'er have bowed me to some form divine. 
They deem me proud, that, where the world hath flattered, 

I ne'er have knelt to languish or adore ; 
The}- think not that the homage idly scattered 

Leaves the heart bankrupt, ere its spring is o'er. 

No ! in my soul there glows but one bright vision, 

And o'er my heart there rules but one fond spell, 
Bright'ning my hours of sleep with dreams Elysian 

Of one unseen, yet loved, aye, cherished well. 
Unseen ? Ah, no ; her presence round me lingers, 

Chasing each wayward thought that tempts to rove ; 
Weaving affection's web with fairy fingers. 

And waking thoughts of purity and love. 

Star of my heaven ! thy beams shall guide me ever. 
Though clouds obscure and thorns bestrew my path ; 

As sweeps my bark adown life's arrowy river 
Thy angel smile shall soothe misfortune's wrath ; 



MARY STEARNS PA TTERSON. \ 53 

And, O, should fate e'er speed her deadhest arrow, 
Should vice allure to plunge in her dark sea, 

Be this the onl}' shield my soul shall borrow — 

One glance of heaven, one burning thought of thee. 

I ne'er on earth may gaze on those bright features, 

Nor drink the light of that soul-beaming e3'e ; 
But wander on 'raid earth's unthinking creatures 

Unloved in life, and unlamcnted die ; 
But ne'er shall fade the spell thou weavcst o'er me, 

Nor fail the star that lights my lowly way ; 
Still shall the night's fond dreams that liglit restore me, 

Though fate forbid its gentler beams b}* day. 

I have not dreamed that gold or gems adorn thee — 

That Flatt'r\''s voice ma}' vaunt thy matchless form ; 
I little reck that worldlings all may scorn thee. 

Be but thy soul still pure, thy feelings warm. 
Be thine bright Intellect's unfading treasures, 

And Poes3''s more deeply-hallowed spell, 
And faith, the zest that heightens all thy pleasures. 

With trusting love — Maid of my soul, farewell. 



ittarg Steams ^attersson. 

Miss Patterson was born in Nashua, Marcli 3, 1811. She sradiiatert at the Troy 
Female Seminary at the age of twenty -two, ami most of her life, nntil disaliled by 
illness, has bcen'dcvoted to teacliing. The fields of labor in which she served quite 
acceptably were at Oberlin, Ohio; New Britain, Connecticut; SulVolk, Vir;,'inia; and 
New Hampton, tliis State; and for several years she was principal of the Female 
Departmcut of Cortland Academy , at Homer, N. Y. She resides in Lawrence, Maes. 



THE AUTUMN ROSE. 

I saw, one bright autumnal day, 

A beauteous rose unfold ; 
And to a genial sun display 

A bosom decked with gold ; 
I gazed upon tlie lovely flower. 

With rapturous dehght, 
And thought its charms had spell of jjower 

To make even winter bright. 

I wished that autumn rose so fair 

In radiance long might bloom, 
And shed through the surrounding air 

Its beauty and perfume. 
Vain wish ! for on its ruddiness. 

Soon fell a withering blast ; 
It drooped, and all its loveliness 

Died ere the day was past ! 



154 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

So pass earth's fairest flowers awaj'^, 

So dies tlie parent's joy ; 
As clouds obscure the brightest daj^, 

And griefs the heart annoy ; 
But there's a balm for souls oppressed, 

A hope the heart to sta}- ; 
A bosom where the head may rest, 

While tears are wiped away. 

Thrice happy they who can repose, 

In calm and hoh' trust, 
On Him who wept for others' woes. 

Who raised the sleeping dust ; 
Who in a glorious robe of white 

Arrays the blood-bought soul, 
And bids it rest in realms of light, 

While endless ages roll ! 



LINES FOR A YOUNG LADY'S ALBUM. 

We love to see the flashing light the polished diamond throws. 
To breathe the odor of the pink, the fragrance of the rose ; 
We love to hear the pealing tones that from the organ roll, 
To feel the dear delight that flows from sympathy of soul ; 
But there are purer, nobler joys, in store for human kind. 
Those truer joys we prize much more, the treasures of the mind. 
What can outvie the diamond's blaze? the fragrant rose excel? 
The "Morning Star," or "God our Sun" and "Lily of the vale." 
Then turn, dear girl, an upward e3'e, toward that dear Light 

divine. 
And like the Lil}- of the vale, in lady beauty shine. 



Mrs. Pratt, the daughter of George and Mary (Wallace) Pratt, was born at Mont 
Vernon, In ISll, an<I is yet living. She marrie'd Rev. D. D., Pratt, a Baptist clergy- 
man, who is deceased. 



"Do they love there still? for no voice I hear," 

Said a maid, as she thought of her childhood's home, 

Of the rural bower, and the streamlet clear. 
And the flowery fields where she used to roam ; 

And she sighed, for no answering echo came 

To tell that hers was a cherished name. 

"Do the}^ love there still !" in that ancient hall 
Where the orient sun sheds his golden light, 



ELI AS NASON. 155 



Where the moonbeams plajed on the painted wall, 
And the brilliant stars decked the joyous night? 
But no Aoicc replied, for the tide of time 
Had borne the loved to another clime. 

"Do they love there still?" where the 3'oung and gay 
With elastic step trod the mazy dance. 

And words that the lips miglit never sa}' 
Spoke to the heart in the passing glance? 

And the maiden wept when a stranger tone 

Told that her friends were gone — all gone I 

"Do they love there still?" where at earl}- morn 

They meet to peruse the classic i)age. 
To cull bright gems and the mind adorn. 

And in high pursuits its powers engage? 
And tones that the maiden's bosom thrill 
Tell of a love that is cherished still. 

"Yes, the}' loA-e there still !" and the golden chain 
Has wreathed its links with a clasp so strong 

That the heart which its pressure would not retain 
Must struggle against it hard and long, 

Or, parting asunder all earthly ties. 

By heaven's high mandate to glor}' rise. 

And then, O then, in the "better land," 

Where the good of earth shall together meet, 

May all who coinpose that sister band 
As sainted spirits each other greet ; 

Then what bliss divine will the bosom thrill, 

As the echo rings, "The}' love there still !" 



Rev. Elias Nason, son of Levi anrl Sarah (Xe\vton)Xason, was born in VTrentham 
Centre, Mass., Apr. 21, 1811; graduated at IJrown t'nivcrsity in 18:^."); spent nearly 
ten year.s a.s a teacher in Newbiiryport, where lie was licensed to preach, July 11, 
1839. lie was settled as a pastor at Na tick, May .5, IS.'JJ, at Medlord, Mass., 1858 
and at Kxeter. ISGO, where he continued until May 20, 18().5. He took an active part 
in the war, and removed to North Billerica, Mass., in 18G5. He spent parts of the 
yeai-s 1874 and .0 in visitinp: the various cities of Europe, and resided about half a 
year at Rome. He has written many books, among others "The Life of Henry Wil- 
8on"an intimate friend, "'Life of ('harles Summer," ami a "Gazetteerof the State of 
Massachusetts." He has published live dilVerent hymn books, and has lectured 
over one thousand times before lyeeums and similar societies. He is now pastor of 
the Pawtucket church of Lowell. He married Miss .Mira Anna liiirelow in 1837. 
She is a native of New Marlborough, N. 11. Two of their sous are ministers. 



A MORNING HYMN. 

Through the shades of night, O my God, thou hast kept 
Watch and ward o'er my bed, and I've peacefully slept: 



156 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

In health now arising, I hail the new day, 

And my tribute of praise to Thee gratefully pay. 

Though ruling in power and splendor above, 
Thou visitest man with the light of thy love ; 
Thou openest the gates of the East that the sun, 
As a giant, his course o'er the nations ma}- run. 

But yet by the cross in redemption is given 
Effulgence more bright from the portals of heaven ; 
And with myriads adoring, I bend to confess 
The Prince thus descending his peojDle to bless. 

His was the pity, the love and the grace 

That exhausted the chalice our sins to efface, 

And through Him, O my God, who such pangs underwent, 

To thee this petition 1 humbly present : — 

O feed me to-daj^ from thy bountiful store, 
And heavenward incline all my wishes to soar ; 
Be near me when tempted, from without and within, 
And deliver m}^ soul from the empire of sin. 

Help me to be lowl3% forgiving and true, 

All alive to the work that m}- hands find to do ; — 

With radiance celestial my dark spirit fill. 

And make every thought correspond with thy will. 

In mercy forgive me the ills I have done ; 
IVIy transgressions remit in the name of tly Son ; 
Keep, keep me from wandering away from thy fold, 
And inscribe my poor name in thy record of gold. 

Then peacefully hour after hour shall roll by, 
And pursuing ni}' course under light from on liigh, 
Every step shall still bring me, where'er I may roam. 
But nearer to thee, O my Grod, and my Home ! 



A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 

Ring, O bells, from tower and steeple ! 
Wake from slumber, O ye people ! 
Chi'ist is born ; our consolator. 
King of kings and Mediator. 

Ring, O bells, the gladsome story ! 
Homage to the Prince of glory ! 
Christ is born ! O, bow before Him, 
All 3'e Kindreds, and adore Him. 



ELIAS NASON. 157 



Ring, O bells, the roj-al tidings. 
Bring, O men your richest oflerings ! 
Christ is born ! Desire of nations ; 
Laud Ilini, angels, of all stations. 

Ring, O bells, this world's great wonder ! 
Hush, O, war, th}' pealing thunder! 
Christ is born ; low in the manger ; 
Hosts of heaven, hail the stranger. 

Ring, O bells, in measured cadence ; 
Eastern Magi, spread 3'our incense ; 
Christ is born, ring bells, again, 
"To God be glor}-, peace to men !" 

Ring, O bells, all music blending 
Into chimes to heaven ascending, 
Christ is born ; ring bells, O ring, 
"Salvation to the new-born Kiuy: !" 



JESUS ONLY. 

Jesus only ; when the morning 
Beams upon the paths I tread ; 

Jesus only ; when the darkness 
Gathers round ray weary head. 

Jesus bnl}' ; when the billows 
Cold and sullen o'er me roll ; 

Jesus only ; when the tempest, 

Rends the tomb, and wakes the soul. 

Jesus only ; when the judgment 
Boding fears ni}' heart appall, 

Jesus only ; when the wretched, 
On the rocks and mountains call. 

Jesus onl}- ; when adoring 

Saints their crowns before him bring ; 
Jesus only ; 1 will joyous, 

Through eternal ages sing. 



THE rOOR MAN AT THE GATE OF PARADISE. A 

DREAM. 

A poor old man died on one bitter cold day, 
And directly to Taradise wended his way ; 



158 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Saint Petei' he met, — 'tis a dream I relate, — 

With his great shining kej's, keeping ward at the gate. 

Now while standing here, with the Apostle com'ersing, 
The events of his journe}' to heaven rehearsing, 
He sees a rich townsman, — the gate is ajar, — 
Slip quietly- b}^ them, and in through the bar. 

He listens ; he hears peals of music arise 
To welcome this man to his home in the skies ; 
But on entering himself, though bright visions fill 
His fancy with rapture, all is silent and still. 

"How is this?" turning back to Saint Peter, his guide, 
In accents of wonder, the poor man then cried ; — 
"When ni}' neighbor went in, sweetest music I heard, 
Why is not the same honor on me now conferred? 

D'3'e keep up the distinctions here, please let me know, 
Twixt the rich and the poor that we had down below ? 
"Not at all", said Saint Peter, "O no, not at all, — 
Just as brothers we live in this banqueting hall ; 

But poor folks like you, I am happy to say. 
By thousands pass through the gate every day ; 
About once in a ^-ear comes a rich man along. 
Then all Paradise breaks into general song !" 



THE LORD'S PRAYER, PHARAPHRASED. 

Be hallowed, our Father in heaven, thj* name ; — 
Thy kingdom of glorj' let all tongues proclaim ; 
Be done here below, thine adorable will, 
As spirits celestial its mandates fulfil I 

I'rom thy bountiful hand b^' which all men are fed, 
We crave for this da}' our allotment of bread ; — 
For sins without number, O, may we receive 
Th}' pardon, as we others freely- forgive. 

From the wiles of the tempter our spirits defend ; 
Keep, O keep us from perils that ever impend. 
And the kingdom, the power, the glory be given ! 
To thee evermore, our dear Father in heaven. 



THE SMILE OF THE KING. 

Mid sorrows and dangers that darken my wa}'. 
As onward through life's tangled mazes I stray. 



CHARLES JAMES FOX. 159 

I turn from the scenes that surround rae and sin g ; — 
"There is peace, O ni}- soul, in the smile of the King !" 

When o'er the lone ocean tlie wild surges roll, 
And tempests tremendous descend from the pole, — 
Through the conflict I hear the sweet harmony spring ; — 
"There is peace, O my Soul, in the smile of the King!" 

Unseen, he still tenderl}' leads me along 

In ways that I know not, and gives me the song, 

As my heart's dearest treasure before Him I bring ; — 

"There is peace, O m}- Soul, in the smile of the King!" 

Inconstant and wayward, I grieve that I am ; 
But hid in mj- heart is the power of the Lamb ; 
And whate'er be the anguish the echoes still ring ; — 
"There is peace, O my Soul, in the smile of the King !" 

And O, when I pass through the shade that shall close, 
In silence profound o'er these brief mortal woes, 
Be this my last song, to my God as I cling ; — 
"There is peace, O my Soul, in the smile of the King !" 

Then rising in splendor, the hosts to behold, 
>Yho sound his high praises on viols of gold, — 
P^xultant, m}- tongue in his presence shall sing ; 
"There is peace, O m}' Soul, in the smile of the King !" 



THE BLUE GENTIAN. 

A lovely blue gentian, Sweet flower of the wild wood. 

In solitude bending, Of heaven's own blue. 

Once drew mj^ attention. What dreams of my childhood, 

As summer was ending. Concentre in 3'ou ! 

In beauty resplendent, I stooped this fair flower 

It bloomed all alone ; From its light stem to sever, 

To angels attendant. And from that blissful hour. 

Its charms onlv known. I wear it forever? 



arf)arles James dTox. 



Charles J Fox vas bom in Antrim, October 11, 1811. lie ffrailuatcd at Dart- 
mouth College ill \>.\\. anil afterwards became a lawyer in Nashua, lie dieil Feb- 
ruary 17, I.'^4(i. A tribute to his memory by .lolm II." VVarlaud i.s found elsewhere 
In this volume. He compiled in part the "New Uampshii-e Book of Prose and 
Poetry." 



160 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

THE CHRISTIAN PROMISE. 

When he who spake as never man hath spoken, 
Came to Our earth to elevate and bless, 

He lifted the down-trodden and heart-broken, 
And cheered the widow and the fatherless. 

He taught the glorious truth, "j-e are all brothers !" 
That love and justice unto all are due ; 

That in hfe's business "ye should do to others 
Even as ye would that they should do to you." 

Glad tidings of great joy ! Earth's gi'oaning masses, 
Enslaved and burdened by some regal line, 

Now learn that God hath made no "better classes" 
To tyrannize o'er them by right divine. 

"Our Father !" what a glorious revelation. 

Linking our birth-right with the infinite whole ; 

Bidding man live as fits his noble station, 
Teaching the priceless value of the soul ! 

Blessed be God for this sublime ideal. 

Which would transform this earth to paradise ! 

Blessed are they who strive to make it real, 
In thought and life, by toil and sacrifice ! 

Blessed are they who, with a strong endeavor, 
And faith undoubting and true Christian heart. 

Seek for the true, the right, the equal ever. 
And in no wrong and selfishness have part. 

And there are signs that brighter light is breaking, 
Through the thick clouds of eighteen hundred years ; 

That love and truth shall in new power be waking, 
And earth be gladdened with millennial years. 

Man in God's image and God's temple glorious 
With all his upward tendencies we hail. 

For God hath said that love shall be victorious, 
And "truth is mighty and will yet prevail." 



John N. Moses, a brother of Thomas P. Moses, was born in Portsmouth, Decem- 
ber 29, 1811, He was a printer, and gave evidence of the possession of poetical 
talent of a hij?h order, which would undoubtedly have made him distinguished 
but for his early death, at Fort Foster, Florida, near Tampa Bay, December 17, 
1837. 



GEORGE MATHER CHAMPNEY. 161 



STANZAS. 

Vain man ! dare ye presume to be — 

All sinful thus — more wise than God? 
More mighty, holy, just than He 

Who holds the eternal judgment-rod ? 
That haughty brow all crimsoned o'er 

With deep-felt guilt and shame must be, 
And that proud heart must learn to pour 

Its gushings of humility ! 

A single link in that vast chain 

Of wisdom, reaching where the eye 

Of mortal strives to gaze in vain. 
Would ye subvert God's harmony? 

It cannot be ! ye may not scan 
What angels long in vain to see, 

Why, in his dealings, God to man 
Should wrap his wand in mystery. 

O be content that he has spread 

The hills with bounties, fields with food ; 
That all earth's fruits for thee are shed, — 

Earth's every blessing for th}' good : 
And though thy heart has now been crushed 

While basking in Hope's sunny ray, 
Peace ! — let thy murmurings be hushed : 

Shall He who gave not take away ? 

He who is infinite in love ; 

Who fills the earth with bliss for you. 
And spreads that glorious arch above 

To cheer thy path in mercy too, — 
A hope of richer bliss hath given 

Beyond the uncertain bounds of time ; 
And hearts, by sorrow worn and riven. 

Shall find a balsam in that clime ! 



Seorge Jiflatfter (^tampneg. 

(icorgc M. Champney was born in New Ipswich, March 6, 1812. At the ago of 
fourteen years he went to Boston and was employed in a store. After remaining 
Uiere a few years lie went to New Jersey and attended an academy. Subsciiuently 
he engaged in merc^mtile business in that sUite. He returned to Boston an<l 
BCtUed in the dry g<)<jds trade, and continued there in business forty years, making 
his home in Woburn. He suffere.l much loss of property by the great Are In 1872. 
Jlis death occurred January 4, 1882. 

LINES TO SOUIIEGAN RIVER. 

Quiet Souhegan ! thy curling waves 
Flow through the meadows green ; 



162 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Thy crj'stal bed and daisied banks 
In placid depths are seen. 

Come, stand upon the bridge with me 
That spans the moving tide ; 

No object intercepts the view 
That opens far and wide. 

The pebbled road comes winding down 
To where it meets the stream ; 

Its rugged path then mounts the hill 
Towards sunHght's earliest beam. 

The rude stone walls that bound it in, 
By hard worn hands were laid, 

Moved to the toil by honest hearts 
That heaven's will obeyed. 

Scattered along the varied banks 
Tliat hedge the travelled way, 

The moss-grown stones and herbage wild 
Their roughest charms display. 

Now gaze we on thy face, fair stream. 

As up the vale we look ; 
More tranquil waters never flowed. 

Or bubbling spring forsook. 

How gracefull}' the "Elbow" curls 

Just where a brook unites 
Its mingling drops, that rippling come 

Adown from woody heiglits. 

Bej'ond, those alder's bushy ranks 
Skirt thick the farther side. 

And form a shady, quiet haunt 
So sweet at eventide. 

Onward the eye pursues its glance 
To where the forest frowns 

Which in its cool and dusky groves 
The gleaming sunlight drowns. 

Near where the waters meet the wood 

A covert nook is found. 
That echoes still the merry laugh 

Of voices all around. 

How through the frame the pulses thrill 
As days come rushing on, 



GEORGE MA THER CHA MPNEY. \ 63 

And the ebbing tides of memor}- fill 
With mirth and dance and song. 

The boat is moored, the shore is gained, 

All hearts are happ}' now ; 
The mazy dance is threaded quick, 

And pendant branches bow. 

With sport fatigued, the chowder comes, 

Then added viands grace 
The rustic board : the toast goes round 

And jo}- fills ever}- face. 

Again the merry shout goes up ; 

The jocund glee is heard, 
The tangled copse that spreads around 

With ga^-est life is stirred. 

(Irav twilight comes, now ply the oar 

And homeward move the boat, 
How calmly down the silver tide 

The freighted bark doth float ! 

The noise of rude-tongued mirth is hushed, 

As suits the evening hour, 
And mellow voices blending sweet 

Some vesper music pour. 

I see them now ! I hear their tones 

Melting on memor3-'s ear. 
Although the softened cadence comes 

O'er man}' a passing year. 

Now turn we down the flowing stream 

How stately on it goes ! 
Its deep'ning current gathers strength 

Till o'er the "dam" it flows. 

Here first the hand of art has thrown 

A stony barrier o'er 
Thy water's bed ! here first is heard 

Niagara's mimic roar. 

"Waterloom's" wheels with busy inun 

Are moved at tliy command. 
And spindles fly with rapid whirl 

Guided by woman's hand. 

Among New Hampshire's mountain streams 
This boasts the primal claim 



1C4 POETS OF imw HAMPSHIRE. 

Of giving power at man's behest 
To turn a spinning frame. 

The plunging waters now move on 

Dashing from rock to rock. 
Till curbed again by art's bold hand 

Repeat the thunder shock. 

How changed the scene from which we tnmed 
Where banks'were smooth and green, 

And shading bush and nodding grass 
Were mirrored in the sheen. 

A shelving blutf of giddv height 

Walls up the river s way, 
And ledges rough and woody steeps 

Hold timid feet at bay. 

But here the might of man has built 

A bold and spanning arch. 
Between whose butments strong and high 

The narrowed waters march. 

The traveller looks with awe adown 

The fissure drear and wild ; 
The mother hastes with fearful steps 

When passing with her child. 

Flow on thou stream I although beyond 

My vision's farthest ken : 
I'm with you there in meadows green 

By wood and rocky glen. 

Thy many windings cluster round 

The childhood of my heart. 
And clinging there shall never cease 

Their image to impart. 



liamrs (ri)urr1)ill i5rpant. 

Rev. J. C. Bryant was bom in Xew Boston. April ?. lili. He fitted for college 
at Kimball Union Academy and graduated at Amherst Coilesre in ls>5. and subse- 
quentlv at Andover The'sloglcal seminary. He was orlaine'l an-l senle<i as pastor 
of the Congregational churi?h Ln Littleton. 3Iass., in IStO. In ISW lie went to South 
Africa as a missionary, where he died Decemt'er 22, ISoO. 



SABBATH MOENLS'G. 

Hail delightful Sabbath mom I 
Brightest hopes of thee are bom : 
Thankful for my Father's care. 
Turns my soul to Him in prayer. 



JAMES CHURCHILL BRYANT. 165 

Bounteous Source of life and light, 
Thou hast kept me through the niglit ; 
Me from ever\' sin defend. 
Till these \io\y hours shall end. 

Keep me, Saviour, near tin' side, 
Kindh' for m}- wants provide ; 
Purge away each sinful stain 
In His blood for sinners slain. 

To thy courts when I repair, 
Heavenly Father, meet me there ; 
Pour rich blessing on my soul, 
Make my wounded spirit whole. 

]N[ay thine earthh* sabbaths prove 
Foretaste sweet of rest above, 
Bear ni}- thoughts from earth away, 
Guide me to the realms of day. 



IN SICKNESS. 

Great God, I bow before tin- power, 
Yet still th}- goodness trust ; 

While storms of sorrow round me lower, 
And press me to the dust. 

Ah ! what is man, frail, dying man, 
Though in thine image made ; 

How soon he measures out his span, 
How soon in death is laid. 

The brilliant hopes that year by 3'ear 
On youth's bright pathway bloom. 

In death's cold shadows disappear, 
And lo, an open tomb ! 

Throbs painfully the aching heart. 

Tears oft bedim the eye ; 
No solace can the earth impart 

To check the rising sigh. 

Yet, gracious God, to thee is known 
Each piercing i)ang of grief, 

Thou liearest each extorted groan. 
And thou canst give relief. 

Around the couch where lone I lie. 
No mother mav attend 



166 POETS OF SEW HAMPSHIRE. 

To cheer md with loA'e's beaming eye, 
But thou art still \ny friend. 

Far from the scenes of early years, 
Far from the friends I love, 

Dreary and cold the world appears. 
And false its friendships prove. 

But cease, my soul, nor thus complain, 
Soon brighter days will come ; 

Thou wilt not long on earth remain 
For earth is not thy home. 

There is a land of peace and love ; 

There shall the weary rest : 
Arise, secure a home above 

And be forever blest. 



Ijcnjamin 13cni)aUotD S1)iHatcr. 

B. P. Shillaber was born iu Portsmouth, July 1-2, lSl-2. In lS-29 he comnienceil 
bis career as a printer in tlie office of the PaUadium iu Dover. He went to Boston 
in lS3o, and soon after made a voyage to Demarara for liis health, having had an 
attack of bleeding: at the lungs. There he worked on the Royal Gazette for twenty 
months. Returning home in'lSoS, he became connected with the Boston Post, where 
be worked upon tlie case. In 1S47 he first produced the Partington Sayings and 
commenced his poetical career about that time. In ISoO he left the Post, and. in 
ciiiijunction with two other men. started the Carpet Bag, a himiorous paper, which 
enjoyed an existence of two years, and was witlnlrawn to make room for more 
successful journals. He returned to the Posf in 18.r2 as local reporter. In 1S56 he 
connected himself with the Saturday Evening Gazette. About that Ume he began 
lecturing. He also produced a vigorous poem, "The Press," which he delivered in 
many places, everywhere to the satisfaction of his audience. He lectivred some- 
what extensively through the country for several years, with sxiccess. But his 
heart was in the "printing olfice, and he abandoned the rostrum. Mr. Shillaber has 
l)€en author of several volumes which have had a wide circulation: "Rhymes with 
R'.-i son and Without;" "The Life and Sayings of Mrs. Partington;" ""Knitting 
Work, a book of Many Fancies;"' "Partingtonian Patchwork;" "Lines in Pleasjint 
Places;" and the "The Partington Series of boys' books." In 1S71 he delivered 
a poem before the literary societies of Dartmouth College, and was made honorary 
member of the Phi Beta Kappa Society of that college. He resides in Chelsea, Masii. 



A COUNTRY SUMMER SUNDAY. 

Sweet season of repose ! th}' influence blest 
Pervades creation with a calm delight ; 

All nature claims the bounty of thy rest. 

And care that held dominion takes its flight. 

No sounds discordant lacerate the ear — 

In tranquil beauty lies the landscape wide ; — 

'•To Praise ! To Praise !" our inmost spirits hear, 
As if an angel spake, from every side. 



BENJAMIN PENHALLOW SHILLABER. 167 

The sun, abroad, o'er meadow, wood and stream, 
A l>rigliter, holier radiance seems to fling ; 

The birds inspired with sweeter music seem, 
And breathless breezes wait to hear them sing. 

Anon, awakening with a nnirninring note. 
The soft winds harp on instrumental trees, 

While perfumes from a myriad blossoms float, 
Borne on the pinions of the joyous breeze. 

The cattle in the field, released from stall, 

(J raze gratefully upon the grasses cool, 
\Vhere the refreshing shadows darkl}- fall, 

Or stand as studying in some pleasant pool. 

Tlie rustling corn in tasscled pride outflings 
Its banners in the gleaming sun to dance, 

And every spire in golden triumph swings 
In plenitude of rich luxuriance. 

The farmer listless leans upon the wall. 

And looks with calm contentment o'er his fields. 

While glad emotions all his heart enthral, 
And thankfulness that here its tribute j-ields. 

Hut hark ! amid the charms that rest around. 

Comes to our ears the warning sabbath-bell ; 
The listening hills return the sacred sound, 

Which wakens echoes in the vales that dwell. 

And now, sedately from each cottage home, 

The village fathers, sabbatlily arra3-ed, 
And village mothers, dignifiedly come, 

And village maidens with their "best" displayed ; 

The dust}- chaise rolls down the dusty hill, 

A relic saved from generations past, 
A pride of station clinging to it still, 

And deferential looks are on it cast ! 

And loving pairs lag loiteringly along 

Beneath the shadows of the elm trees, tall, 

And tliemes are there for story or lor song 
Poured out 'neath many a faded parasol. 

All take the path to where, each holy da}', 
Tlie reverend pastor doth his accents raise, 

And strives to draw his hearers' minds away, 
By urgings gentle, to a godly praise ; 



168 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

To where the anthem unassisted springs, 
And melody appalled turns pale to hear, 

Gathering for flight her silver-plumaged wings, 
To seek elsewhere some more harmonious sphere ! 

Yet much of soul dwells in the simple song. 
Where fervor takes the place of studied art, 

As on the air it pours itself along. 

Freighted with feeling of the fervent heart. 

Methinks that God looks more benignly down 
Upon the da}' His lovingness hath lent, 

When, amid scenes like this its hours we crown 
By offerings with joy and homage blent. 

Ascetic gloom should find no biding place 
To cloud the current of our bosom's rest ; 

The sabbath sun with J03' should gild the face. 
As in the heart its presence is confest. 



PISCATAQUA. 

My heart and soul go out to thee, blue stream. 
Sparkling with pleasant memories of 3'ore, — 
Of days when 3'outh flowed on, as flows a dream, 
As careless as th}' wave that kissed the shore, 
Unheeding, and demanding nothing more 
Than thy fraternity and kindred joy, 
Mid scenes of loveliness then gloated o'er 
With the fond admiration of the boy, 
Which knew no limitation, knew no base alloy. 

Thou art still 3"0ung and fair, Piscataqua, 
Thy voice as sweet and tuneful to ni}- ear 
As when, in early boyhood's holiday. 
It gave me fervent happiness to hear : 
M}' neighbor, plaj-mate and companion dear, 
Sportive and wild with turbulent unrest, 
That gave no ripple of obtrusive fear 
To check the cheerful current of mj^ breast. 
When held within thine arms or by thy side at rest. 

Thou speakst of those, who in the vortex lost 
Of life's endeavor, long have lain to sleep, 
Or those who are upon time's billows tost, 
For whose returning vainh' watch we keep ; 
Reminders rise, like phantoms, from thy deep, 
. Of boyish striving, with abandon free 



BENJAMIN PENH A LhOW SEILLABEE. 1 69 



As thine own sparkling billows, that did leap 
In the glad sunshine, with exuberant glee, 
And thrilled me with the thought that I should sometime he. 

Oh, rushing river, fierce, resistless, strong! — 
Staying no moment welcome to extend 
To "him who's loved and treasured thee so long 
With more than the affection of a friend ; 
But yet thou dost thy dimpling eddies send. 
That, swirling at my feet, smile back the sun, 
Loitering where shore and water sweetly blend, 
While on thy mission thou keepst sternly on, 
Turning aside'for naught until the goal is won. 

Yon fisher's boat, that at her killock swings, 
Speaks to my consciousness most palpably 
How near the spectacle rememl)rance brings 
Of what was once a rare delight to me ; 
Can that be mine, the form which there I see 
In youth's habiliments, his sinkered line 
Dropt neath the tide to catch what there may be 
That to his near acquaintance doth incline ? 
See there, upon his hook, the struggling victim shine ! 

Piscataqua ! no better wish I'd have, 
Wlieu life was young, than thus to idly swing 
Upon the buoyant bosom of thy wave. 
And o'er the "side my line seductive fling : 
To hear the plover flit on hasty wing. 
To mark the clouds reflected on thy stream. 
To catch glad voices which the airs ditl bring 
From the far shore, lit by the sun's bright beam. 
And swinging, listening, loafing — fish and fondly dream. 

How far, Piscataqua, thy shores expand, 
AVith beauties manifold on every side ! 
And all the loyal glories of the land 
Smile in the mirror of thy glassy tide. 
There Agamenticus, in solenm pride. 
Lifts his grand dome above the distant pines, 
Tliere groves sweep downward to thy loving side. 
And fair Cocheco in the distance twines. 
Amid the winding banks, till with thee she combines. 

The curving shore, the orchard and the field 

Yet hold their places, and the river road 

Winds through yon village, half by trees concealed, 

Where peace has its beneficent abode ; 



170 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Be3ond, the white church, on the upland showed, 
Lifts its fair turret, and each S3ivan nook 
Glows in the landscape as it e'er has glowed 
Since memory its fond departure took, 
To dwell upon the past as 'twere an open book. 

Unchanged, unchanging, shore and rock and wave; 
But I, alas ! what changes dwell in me, 
As here I sit, where youth's bright seasons gave 
Their choicest keepsakes to my custody ! 
Nor faithless I, though my dim e3'es may see 
But faintly what is in my heart retained. 
With rare distinctness of that by-gone day, 
Which its beatitudes about me rained, 
Within that temple new, by care 3et unprofaned. 

Farewell, bright stream ! mj' ejes may ne'er again 
Behold th}' beauties, but I bear from thee 
A love renewed, which, like some heavenly strain 
Amid earth's discords, will give ecstasy 
In hours remaining of the 3'et to be. 
And I shall fonc}- often that I hear 
Thy voice, as here of late it greeted me, 
Speaking in parting tones of love and cheer, 
And giving gladsomeness unto my failing ear. 
Newington on Piscataqua, Aug. 31, 1879. 



THE HIDDEN TREASURE. 

John Went worth, Roval Governor, the last 
That in New Hampshire bore vice-regal sway, 
Held court at Wolfeborough, by a lake, remote 
From care of office, then made onerous 
By the fierce restlessness of those he ruled. 
Who caught the living spirit of the hour 
And threatened in the mood of discontent. 
Portsmouth was turbulent, although respect 
Checked violence 'gainst harm to genial John, 
For all owned kind!}' fealty to him, 
Although detesting his authoritj-. 
He was of Boston lineage and Harvard brand, 
A generous, courtl}', cultivated man, 
Of tastes refined, with ever}' wish awake 
The people of his care to benefit. 
Broad roads he builded and new ways devised 
To give New Hampshire her predestined rank ; 
And Dartmouth felt the kindness of his heart 



BENJAMIN PEN HA hi. W SHILLABEB. 1 7 1 



In many offices of generous care. 

But "Royi^l Governor!" his title, cliofcd 

The temper of his people, and he Hew 

To this, his sylvan realm, for peace and rest. 

He haply found it, did his buxom dame, — 

Widow of Atkinson, in ten days wed, 

Post nubila at Atkinson's demise, 

(What time, in going from the nuptial rites. 

Did Artliur Brown, the rector, fall down stairs, 

And, tributary to the season, break an arm,) — 

Admit of peace domestic, breach of which 

Were worse than din of direst politics. 

His stately manse stood smiling by the shore, 

A pile of "goodly station, since destroyed 

By tire, which licked it to its cellar walls. 

Broad avenues connected with the road, 

O'erarched by sturdy trees, while, back of all, 

And far on every side, stretched hill o'er hdl, 

Giving incentive to the lively chase. 

Where game abounded and adventure becked 

The daring huntsman to his best essay, 

A hospitable, cheerful home it was. 

Amenities of old-time neighborhood 

Existed thereabout without a check. 

And one could scarcely dream the cloud suspent 

So soon to merge the land in hostile flood ! 

'Twas springtime, and the glory of the year 

Was seen on verdant upland, vale and mead. 

When murmurs came, at first, of Lexington, 

And the bold stand the yeomanry had made 

'(iainst that prerogative which AVentworth held. 

And then the full-toned clarion's fearful breath 

Proclaiming that the hour of strife had come ! 

The land was rising, kingly rule was broke. 

And gloomy eyes were bent on courtly John, 

Though well content that he should e'er remain, 

("ouUf he of his commission be divest. 

Then came the secret order to depart. 

The Governor, too far from Barclay's ships, 

Tacked bag and baggage for a speedy flight. 

The coach of state," rolled to the mansion door. 

Hid by the night, received a weighty load ; 

Gay Lady AVentworth and the precious plate, 

With its armorial bearing, and such cash 

As then in argent sheen the coflers lined. 

The Governor the last, who backed himself, 



172 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

In stately- silence, by my lady's side. 

Mount quickly, coachman ! Footman, take 3'our place ! 

On rolls the coach in cumbrous tardiness, 

And from the window Wentworth looks his last 

On his broad acres, with a painful sigh, 

While Lady Wentworth dreams of ball and rout 

'Neath better auspices and loyal skies. 

But heavy grew the way, the horses strove 

And foamed with wearying efforts to advance, 

Until, quite failing, the\' no effort made. 

The treasure must be left, or else the dame, 

Its half e(iuivalent — forbid the thought ! — 

And there beneath the solemn midnight stars 

The earth received in trust the precious store. 

No more delay. The harborage was gained. 

In Portsmouth, safe beneath the ro3'al guns, 

Did Wentworth tarry till rebellion took 

Such sturdy presence that it was not safe 

For rojal governor to linger there ; 

And so he passed forever from the scene. 

He ne'er regained the treasure hid in earth. 

And no man knoweth whereabouts 'twas hid. 

The path he went, traditional alone. 

Affords no clew to its dark resting-place, 

Tiiough man}' seekers have essayed the task 

— Kunning down through the century of years — 

Of finding the so-much-desired prize. 

And even now, at times, dim liglits are seen 

At night, when honest folks should be in bed, 

Dancing about the meadow and the wood, 

In hands of seekers for the buried pelf. 

Led on by tliose who claim tliat they can see 

Through all the mysteries of heaven and earth. 

The earth is honeycombed with punctures made 

By prodding iron bars, but over all 

A monumental disappointment reigns. 

Perhaps John Wentworth guards the spot himself. 

Not 3et selected his adopted heir. 



Woodbury M. Feniald was born in Portsmouth, Mar. 21, 1813. He was educated 
in the schools of his native place. He became a minister of the Universalist denomi- 
nation, and began preaching in Nashua, in 1>^35. He subsequently preached accept- 
ably in Springlield, Newburyport, and Stoneham, Mass. He removed to Boston in 
184.5 and was there settled as a minister. Soon after he became a Swedenborgian, 
and received a call to the New Church Society in New York where he remained a 
year. He preached also in Chicago and in Laporte, Ind., and in other western cities. 
He returned to Boston in 1870, where he remained until his death, Dec. 10, 1873. 



WOODBURY MELCHER FERNALD. 173 

MY DAUGHTER'S HOME. 

Written wliile she is awaj' from it, Aug. 10, 1873. 

While travellers roam abroad to fiiul 
The rustic life of needl'iil change, 

And linger where they roam ; 
Lo ! unto deeper joys inclined, 
Through feeling's realm and fanc^-'s range, 

1 sing my daughter's home ! 

This teeming field of living green, 
Sloping so gently from 1113" feet ; 

The broad expanse beyond 
Of lengthened woods, with rifts between, 
IVhere other homes the vision greet. 

Linked in the social bond ; 

The church's spire, the sacred throng 
Of birds mid Summer's golden sheen ; — 

Ah ! what a glory's here ! 
'Tis for no distant scenes I long, 
In humble thankfulness, I ween, 

The blessings still are near ! 

I travel not o'er mountain heights, 
Isee no crystal cascades run. 

No river's limpid stream ; 
But grander views and higher lights, 
Beam from ray soul's unsetting sun. 

To gild my waking dream. 

Daughter, I tread thj' home-like halls, 
I walk around this lovely spot, 

Sacred to thee and thine ; 
No gloom upon my spirit palls, 
The cares of life are all forgot. 

And heaven itself doth shine. 

Each room, each dear familiar thing, 
Or work of art, or tree, or flower, 

Seems filled with silent life. 
The mute piano — does it bring 
No secret song to calm the hour, 

And free the soul from strife? 

The spacious parlor's cheerful glow. 

The chamber's sweet memorial air. 

All things within my reach, — 



174 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

The classic librar3''s rich flow 
Of thought and beauty eveiywhere, 
Invite to silent speech. 

Spirits invisible here come 
To quicken every living book, 

And fill the heart with peace ; 
And thus I roam through thy dear home, 
Daughter of love — the while 1 look 

To thy sweet self's release. 

Away — away ! the hills among, 
Mid laughing waters' grateful sound, 

For health, for life, for cheer ; 
While, sweet as poet ever sung. 
Or happy elf has ever found, 

Th}" home awaits thee here ! 



A VISION OF THE ETERNAL GLORY. 

God of glor}' ! when with aye uplifted, 
El^'e of the soul in visioned wonder clear ; 

And when by thine eternal spirit gifted, 
What deep revealings to the soul, appear ! 

Nature recedes ; and in the expanse eternal, 
Spreading and opening to mj raptured sight, 

1 see the hosts of God, the heights supernal. 

The church triumphant crowned in heaven's own light. 

Ah ! there are the}' who, once among the lowly. 
Erst trod the paths of patient virtue here ; 

And there are the}' who, in thy presence holy. 
Trembled for sin, but knew no other fear: 

Prophets, reformers, — they who, God rcA'ering, 
Battled with hoar}' wrong and ancient might ; 

Behold them now in triumph re-appearing 
On all the hills of God, in glory bright ! 

In deepening vision, flames a light before them, 
AVhere a long train of mart^a's rise to view ; 

And, lo ! a central figure bending o'er them, — 
The dear Redeemer crowning them anew. 

Victors and heroes all, 1 see them waving 
Triumphant palms, in robes of purest white : 

No more the terrors of the conflict braving. 

Peace is their lot, and heaven their high delight. 



WILLIAM B. MARSH. 175 



ffiBilliam iJ. imarisl). 

Wm. B. Marsh, was born in Exeter, in 1813. He commenced the business of 
life as a printer in Portsmouth. He weut to New York and worlied at his tra(ie 
two years. He started the Xew Bedford Rer/ister, which he edited for some time. 
In lf4l lie became editor of thu Jiroollyn X. Y.Eagle. He was esteemed for hi-* 
abilities as a writer, and for the many virtues which adorned his character. He 
died in Broolvljn in 1846. 

THE BRIGHT SPIRIT LAND. 

The bright Spirit Land ! O where doth it lie ! 
In the untold depths of the glorious sky, 
Where the clouds are all tinged with a roseate hue, 
And the stars ever float in a sea of blue — 
Is it there, the bright Spirit Land ? 

And do flowerets breathe on the passing gale, 
And beings celestial their odors inhale. 
While golden winged birds flit the bowers among, 
And gladden the air with their joyous song? 
Do broad rivers sweep with resistless tide. 
And whispering rills through the deep valle.ys glide ; 
Do green forests wave, and huge mountains rise 
Till their snow-covered peaks seem to blend with tlie skies, 
And the many-toned voices of Nature combined, 
C(nne like angels of peace to the care-stricken mind — 
Is it thus in the bright Spirit Land ? 

Or is it amid the ocean of caves, 
Where mariners sleep in their coral graves. 
As the angry wind howls, and the surge beats high, 
And the storm-spirit chants the lullaby ! 
Is it there, where the water-nymph ever is seen, 
As she waves in the caverns her tresses green, 
Or marks the wild billows rise and fall 
As she lightly trips tlirough the sparry hall — 
Is it there, that bright Spirit Land? 

Alas ! who shall fathom His ways, most high? 

W hose throne is revealed to no mortal eye ; 

Or lift the dim veil and in rapture tell 

The pilgrim of earth where his spirit shall dwell, 

When, freed from its cumbersome load of clay, 

It shall soar to the regions of endless day ; 

Or whether amid the bright lamps of heaven, 

That shine o'er our heads in the silent even ; 

Or the nobler orbs that in grandeur roll, 

rroclaiming Ills glory from pole to pole ; 

Or in fur oil climes, where no mortal hath trod ; 



1 7G POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

The spirit shall live in the presence of God. 
There the loved and the lost of this earth shall be found, 
And heaven's high arch with their praises resound, 
As the}' join tlieir rapt hearts and in gratitude sing 
Loud pagans of joy to their Saviour and King. 
There sin shall be finished and tears cease to flow, 
And sorrow and parting no more shall we know, 
But with prophets, and priests, and the martyrs of old, 
Rejoice evermore as new glories unfold 
From the God of our being — O, hasten the rest 
Of Eternity's year 'mong the ransomed and blest ; 
I would fly to that bright Spirit Land. 



iH^ra lEaistman ^tiamjs. 

. Rev. E. E. Adams was born in ConcoriJ, August 20, 1813 He graduated at Dart- 
mouth College in 1836. He was ordained to preach in the autuniu of 1839 under 
tiie auspice's of the Am. Seamen's Friend Society, and went as Chaplain to Ameri- 
can seamen at St. Petersburg, Russia, and subsequently to Havre, France In 
1654 he was pastor of Pearl Street Church, Nashua, and in 1860, organized a church 
in Philadelphia, and caused to be built the North Broad Street cluircli, in that city, 
where he preached for several years. His healtli faihng, he was appointed Profes- 
sor of Sacred Rhetoric in Lincoln University, at Oxforil, Pa., where he died In 
1872. He received the title of D. D., from Dartmouth College. His wife, who sur- 
vives him, was Miss Frances Stevens, a native of Newport. 



STEPPING WITH THE STARS. 

The coiled elastic spring of steel 

Imprisoned in its brazen bars, 
Moving each ruby-balanced wheel 

Measures its motion with the stars ; 

The heart's low pulse, and firmer beat, 
The throbbing of the burdened brain, 

The music of a miUion feet 

On hill-top and in grassy plain ; 

The sea's majestic ebb and flow. 

The ripple on the tender rill. 
The gentle falling of the snow. 

The bird-note and the viol's trill ; 

With these, and in the march of thought 
'Mid passions ripened into wars, 

'Mid the many things which time has wrought 
Our life is stepping with the stars ! 

It is not peace that reigns alone 
In those stupendous orbs of fire, 

But rent and scarred from zone to zone 
They melt, and crumble, and expire. 



EZRA EASTMAN ADAMS. 177 

Nay, discord is but harmony 

Which mortals do not understand, 
The tear, the laughter and the sigh 

Touch in one note the immortal strand. 

A rhythm pervades the universe, 

All things to one grand measure march ; 

The words and letters of our verse 
Are worlds in 3'onder jeweled arch ! 

We rotate in our little cell 

And touch each other through the bars. 
But God. has ordered all things well. 

He keeps us stepping with the stars. 

And from our grander height we see 

Creation groaning 'neath its bars, 
And our own lives in turn to be 

Goals for the steppings of the stars. 



I MOVE INTO THE LIGHT. 

Out of the shadows that shroud the soul, 
Out of the seas where the sad waves roll. 
Far from the whirl of each mundane pole, 
"I move into the light." 

Out of tlie region of cloud and rain. 
Out of the cares that oppress the brain. 
Out of the body of sin and pain, 
"I move into the light." 

Out of the struggles of Church and State, 
Out of the empire of pride and hate, 
Up through the beautiful sapphire gate, 
"I move into the light !" 

Be^'ond the noise of creation's jars. 
Higher than all the worlds and stars, 
Higher than limits of reason's bars, 
"I move into the light." 

We follow after to those high spheres ; 
Notes of th}" rapture fall on our cars ; 
Out of our darkness our sins and our fears, 
"We move into the light." 



178 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

GROWING OLD. 

I cannot labor as of j'ore, 

My hands are heavy, pulses slow ; 

The fires that warmed me at two score 
Now smoulder where they used to glow. 

I've lost the fervor of desire, 

The sense of being full and free ; 

No longer do my thoughts aspire 
To what I may not know and be. 

I've lost my sympathy with man, 
The low ambitions, boasted deeds 

Which fill his sublunary span. 

His schemes of empire and his creeds. 

I've lost the faith that once reposed 
In human promise, purpose, power, 

I gaze — and lo, the scene is closed 
The fruitless vision of an hour. 

Nor is my faith in things unseen 

Less potent than in manhood's prime, 

Though oft the tempter comes between 
My hopes of heaven and joys of time. 

Waiting and watching still I stand 
Upon the calm and solemn shore, 

And look into the promised land 
Till shining ones shall take me o'er. 



WHAT MAY WE CARRY TO THE VAST FOREVER. 

What may we carr}' to the Vast Forever ! 

The mj'stic stair 
Admits not gold, nor whatsoever 

In pomp and pride we wear, — 

These pass not there. 

Our friends we may not take within the Portal ; 

Nor books, nor art. 
Unto the glorious life immortal ; 

Nor idols of the heart, — 

From these we part. 

Nor may we carry to the home eternal 
Our boasted creeds ; 



EDWARD D. BOYLSTON. 179 

These drop and disappear as blossoms vernal ; 
And, wanting faith, our deeds 
Are poor as weeds. 

But to the realm of light and beaut}' 

Shall with us go 
A holy love of dut}-, — 

Whate'er we feel and know 

Of God below. 

Our character and conscience shall attend us ; 

The genial flow, 
Of sympathizing hearts, and sense stupendous 

Of happiness or woe 

.Shall with us go. 

For Charity's fair form is ever parted 

The pearly tloor ; 
For all the sanctifled and holy hearted 

Is spread the golden floor — 

Forever more ! 



Edwarrt D. Boylston, (Son of Richard, grandson of Edward, of Springfield, Mass. ) 
was boru in Amiierst, Jamuiry 'ili, 1814. He was educated at Francestown and ])er- 
ry academies, and he served au aiipreuticeship to the priuting business with his 
father, in the offi(;e of the Farmers' Cabinet. At the age of twenty-one he entered 
upon a course of study preparatory to the gospel ministry, spending two years at 
New Ipswich academy and one at Gilraanton Theological Seminar}-, when I'rom 
failure of health he relinquished his intentions and became associated with his fath- 
er as junior editor of the Cotitirf. lu lS4i he established thu Transcript weekly, 
and the i\r. //. .Vr/^«ciHe, monthly, at Manchester. In 1843 he removed the former 
to Great Falls, anil established ihc Strafford 'J'raitscript , -weekly . In 1848 he re- 
turned to Amherst, and became proprietor of his father's newspaper, which is 
still published by him. His poetical pniductions have been largely of a textual and 
devotional character. He has publi.-hed "Fragrant Memories, or the Dead of a 
Hundred Years," a poem of forty pages, read at the Centennial of his native town 
in 1860, and iu 1882 a poem of the same length, "The Cross of Christ." 



BRIDAL OF THE GRANITE AND PINE. 

[Kead at the meeting of the Maine Press Association, in 18(ii), (at Little Che- 
beafiue, Portland llarlior,) and sung by Barnabee's Troupe, in music- (X)niposed 
for it by Keller, at the Joint Clonvention of the Maineand New Hampshire Aosocia- 
tlons at Uye Beach, in 1S7U as a surprise to the author.] 

The hills of New Hampshire to the valleys of Maine 
Repeat their kind greetings, again and again ; 
Delighted its Press-gang with yours to combine 
The Granite appeareth to honor the Pine. 

AVhen morning's bright-dawning peers in o'er the sea. 
Dispelling the darkness that rests on the lee, 



ISO POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Its beautiful rays, like their Author divine, 
Gild at the same moment tlie Granite and Pine. 

Old Ocean's proud l)illows, wide-rolling in state, 
On l)oth our shores foaming, in service await ; 
While the sweet winds of heaven know of no line, 
But blow alike sweetly o'er the Granite and Pine. 

The fleecy clouds gather far up on the hills. 
With vapors of amber, exhaled from the rills, 
And, guided by Wisdom, all-loving, divine, 
Pour showers of blessing o'er the Granite and Pine. 

The rills of our mountains, to wild streamlets grown. 
Proud rivers of beauty in the valleys are known ; 
Androscoggin and Saco, first mine, and then thine, 
Born each of the Granite and blessing the Pine. 

Ties, firm and well-bedded, our States each to each 
Bind firmly, and lessons of friendship well teach ; 
While the Telegraph-line and our art combine 
To record the warm love of the Granite and Pine. 

Your lands join the lands of no other State, 
Though others, as worthy, your service await ; 
Yet thus the Great Father would seem to design 
To speak of the love of the Granite aud Pine. 

Accepting these teachings of nature and art. 
We give and we take the warm hand and heart ; 
Plighting, in our true love, at Chebeaque's fair shrine. 
Forever to cherish the Granite and Pine. 



THE PEMIGEWASSET. 

Pcmigewasset, Pemigewasset, 
Pride of the hills, and the vale that has it ! 
Born of the clouds, on top of the mountains ; 
Fed from a thousand snow-fed fountains ; 
Rushing down from Wambech Methna, 
With waters pure as the mountain air, 
Over a rock-bound, rock-worn bed. 
To the vale below, with an angry tread. 

Pemigewasset, Pemigewasset, 
Pride of the hills, and the vale that has it! 
As "cliild of the crooked-pine place" known 
By red-men who called thee once their own. 



EDWARD D. nOYLSTON. 181 



( 'oiTipanion in birth of the tiny brook 
'J'hat far adown forms tlie wild Anioiioosuck, 
And the little ripplets that dancing grow 
To the Androscoggin and broad .Saco. 

P('niigo\vasset, Peniigewasset, 

Tride of the hills, and the vale that has it ! 

AVhat cheer in thv waters as onward thev ttow 

O'er the "Great Falls," through "Fairv (Jrotto ;" 

Spreading out in a lake, around Lafayette, 

As an "apple of gold" in silver set — 

AVhere mountain-storm king in madness or mirth 

Has spread the tall forests aslant o'er the earth. 

remigevvasset, Pemigewasset, 
Pride of the liills, and the vale that has it ! 
The white foaming Plume, and the Echo Lake, 
Are born of thy waters, of thy beauty partake; 
And the famed "Old Man" from his dizzy hei<'ht, 
Looks down on th}' waters with ever delight. 

Pemigewasset, Pemigewasset, 

Pride of the hills, and the vale that has it ! 

(^ration's sweet villas and valleys rejoice 

As by them ye flow with musical A'oice, 

And Plymouth and Ashland, and whoever has it, 

Sings piijans, delighted, to the Pemigewasset. 



THE "GREAT LIGHT." 

Light of my soul ! O Saviour dear, 
How I delight to call thee mine, 

With fond assurance, swectl_y clear, 
That I shall be forever thine ! 

O brightness of the Father's face, — 

All holiness conjoins in Thee ! 
All, all fnid famil}' embrace, 

In "I in them and Thou in me." 

Blest those who know th}- shining clear, 
"Children of day," they know no night! 

The}- walk secure, devoid of fear, 
For they are "children of the light." 

Shine on my soul. Saviour divine ; 

Thou, thou art Light — uU else is shade ! 



182 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

May thy sweet rays my steps entwine, 
The blessed light that cannot fade. 

O glorious Sun, mount up on high ! 

Benighted nations wait for thee ! 
Haste, haste to thy meridian sky ! 

Bring in earth's promised jubilee ! 



"NEARER THEE!" 

Jesus, Jesus, let us be Nearer in the Emmaus wallc. 

Nearer, nearer, nearer thee : Hearts aglowing as we talk. 
Nearer to the spear-pierced side 

Of our Love, the Crucified. Nearer when in house of pray- 
er,— 
Nearer, nearer in our love Thou art ever with us there ; 

That which drew thee from In our place of secrecy 

above ; Nearer let us be to thee. 

Nearer thine our walk with foes ; 
Nearer ever mid life's woes. Nearer thine, O Lamb of God, 

Be our path of duty trod. 
Nearer in communion sweet, Though it lead, as it led thee, 
Mary-like, at tliy dear feet ; "O'er the brook" — up Calvary. 



"WITHOUT GOD IN THE WORLD." 

EPHESIANS II. : XII. 

O God ! how brightly overhead 
Tliy glory and thy power are read ; 
The sun reflects thy light and might, 
As doth each diadem of night. 

Where'er on earth we turn our eyes 
Th}' glorious shadow o'er it lies ; 
And all thy works, from field to flower. 
Attest th}- beauty and thy power. 

The waving forest speaks of thee. 
Yea, praise ascends from every tree ! 
And rolling seas confess their joy, 
And in thy service find employ. 

The cattle on a thousand hills. 
The dew that on tliem sweet distils, 
And singing birds and humming bee, 
All sweetl}' join iu praise to thee. 



CHARLES W. UPS AM. 183 

The verdure fragrant, blossoms sweet, 
Decking the footstool of thy feet, 
And tiniest life that knows the sod, 
Bear attestation to a God. 

Blush then, 3-e heavens and earth, that man. 
The crowning glor}- of God's plan. 
Alone of all made b}' His hand, 
Godless within the world should stand ! 



THE BLESSED SABBATH. 

O, Sabbath day ! conception sweet, 
The needs of wear}' souls to meet ! 
A gleam of glory from the throne. 
Of radiant brightness all its own ! 

Th}' dawning is my heart's delight ; 
Thine every hour, from morn till night, 
So fragrant, and with grace so blest, 
Foreshadows the eternal rest. 

When dawns the sacred day, in peace, 
From earth the soul finds sweet release, 
And revels in a realm of bliss. 
Forgetful of the ills of this. 

O, Sabbath day ! thy stay too short. 
When with such heav'nly sweetness fraught ; 
Would that the fragrance to thee given 
Might grace, as sweetl}-, all the seven. 

O, Sabbath day ! O, Sabbath da}' ! 
Light, fragrance on earth's dreary wa}' ! 
Promise of coming rest — yea, more. 
Heaven's sweet shadow cast before ! 



Charles W. Upham was the son of Gea. Timothy Upham of Portsmouth. He was 
born in that town, September 9, 1814. He died iu December, 1834. 



JACOB'S FUNERAL. 

A train came forth from Egypt's land. 
Mournful and slow their tread ; 

And sad the leader of that band. 
The bearers of the dead. 

His father's bones the}- bore away, 
To lay them iu the grave 



184 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Where Abraham and Isaac lay, 
Macpelah's sacred cave. 

A stately train, dark Eg3-pt's pride, 

Chariot and horse are there ; 
And silentlj' in sorrow ride 

Old men of hoarj^ hair. 
For many days they passed along 

To Atad's threshing floor, 
And sang their last and saddest song 

Upon the Jordan's shore. 

And Atad saw the strangers mourn. 

That silent, woe-clad band, 
And wondered much whose bones were borne, 

Thus far from Pharaoh's land. 
The}^ saw the chieftain's grief was sore. 

He wept with manl}^ grace ; 
The}' called that spot forevermore 

Misraim's mourning place. 

They passed the wave that Jacob passed, 

His good staff in his hands. 
They passed the wave that Jacob passed 

With his returning bands. 
'Twas when he met upon his path 

His brother's wild array. 
And fled, for fear his ancient wrath 

Might fall on him that day. 



Mr. Harvey, born in Sutton, January 14, ISlo, anil is descended from one of the ear- 
ly and well linown families of that town. His grandfather— whose Christian name 
h'e bears — came from Nottingham to Sutton, (then Perr^'stown) about the year 1774, 
where, in a log house of liis own construction, his two eldest sons, Jonathan anti 
Matthew, were born. Deacon Harvey was a public spirited and enterprising citi- 
zen, well known as a civil magistrate, legislator and churchman ; and at the time of 
his death in 1799, he was an extensive landholder and a man of wealth. Both of 
the sons mentioned above subsequently became members of congress, aud the lat- 
ter was elected Governor of N. H. in 1830. Mr. Harvey is the only brother of Mrs 
.\ugusta H. Worthen, of Lynn, Mass., a well known writer of both prose and 
verse — selections from whose sparkling poems appear in this collection. In 1831, 
he entered the printing office of the Argui and Spectator, at Newport, as an appren- 
tice; and in 1840, with his cousin, H. G'. Carleton, purchased the establishment, and 
the paper was edited and published by Messrs. Carleton & Harvey through an un- 
broken period of forty years.- Political journalism is not a good field for the culti- 
vation of poetic sentiments; but still, Mr. Harvey's occasional poems evince rare 
talent in that direction, as the following selections will show. 



THE OLD HEARTH-STONE. 

I sing of the old hearth-stone that quietly lay 
'Neath my own native roof near the side of the way. 



MA TTHE W EAR VEY. 1 85 



Where the bright glowing embers, all cheerful and warm, 
Looked out on the darkness and laughed at the storm. 
The music, the mirth, and the songs that resound 
O'er this smooth marble hearth, ring not with the sound 
Of joy and true gladness that was kindled alone 
With the fire that once blazed on the old hearth-stone. 

It speaks of a mother who used to sit there, 

riying her needles in the old arm-chair. 

Ere time dimmed her eye, and fringed her fair brow 

With wrinkles of age and silver as now. 

It speaks of a father who sat by her side. 

Watching his children as gaily they glide 

Round the lap of affection, in the light that was thrown 

From the oaken back-log on the old hearth-stone. 

"I'was there that five sisters, at close of the day, 
Were joined by a brother in health-giving play, 
Till the music of angels was cclio'd from earth 
By juvenile tongues round the old stone hearth. 
That house is now silent ! Joy reigns there no more I 
Decay'd is the threshold and closed is the door ! 
'I'he latch-string is broken, the warl)lers all fiown. 
Save the cricket that sings 'neath the old hearth-stone. 

I've since wander'd long mid fashion and pleasure. 
Searching in vain for the priceless treasure 
That once was m^' own — but I knew not its worth. 
Till driven b}- fate from the old stone hearth. 
'Tis thus that a thought of this relic of yore 
Carries me back to my childhood once more ; 
Then la}' me awaj', when life's work is done, 
And cover my grave with the old heartli-stone ! 

Sink my epitaph deep in its foot-worn face, 

And there let the names of lov'd sisters have place — 

That when tlie old homestead is lost in decay. 

And the circle, now broken, has vanished awa}'. 

Some student of art may pause and restore 

To the moss-covered names their freshness once more ; 

And read from the tablet, forsaken and lone, 

Our Family Record on the old heurth-stone. 



A PATHETIC BALLAD. 

Written with the author's left hand, and inscribed to his broken rljjlit urni. 

''IIow now? pray tell, my Good Right Arm, 
Why bone and muscle swing, 



186 POETS OF NEW EAMPSEIRE. 

Incapable of good or harm, 
Like culprit in a sling? 

"Why clothed like mumm}', weird and old, 

In rags from elbow down. 
And all wrapp'd up in linen fold, 

Like Bishop in his gown ? 

Full three-score years and five, I trow, 
Thou'st been my servant true ; 

That thou should thus forsake me now, 
I little thought of you." 

A twinge of pain, in stifling moan, 
Precedes this quaint reply : — 

"Since you, it seems, have stupid grown, 
I'll frankly tell you why. 

First know that my anatomj' 

Has strangely been upset ; 
That few I find to pity me 

Is reason why I fret. 

The}' say I was a foolish dolt — 
And this they cite for proof: 

That if I'd wisely led my colt 
I'd haply 'scaped her hoof. 

Of this mistake I did repent 
And said, 'Now, brute, I pray. 

Do not your steel-clad heels relent?' 
Alas ! she answered N-e-i-g-h ! 

Yet why she thus has smote me sore, 

I'd kind o' like to know ; 
For I've stood many a breeze before, 

But never such a blow. 

But still in charity I beg 

To hope she meant no harm — 

That when she raised a lively leg, 
She chanced to raze an arm. 

You'll now confess that in my time 

I've done some little good ; 
And here I'll put it into rhyme — 

Just as a poet should. 

These muscles sad e'en now are glad 
Themselves to only hurt ; 



MA TTHE W HARVEY. 187 



The naked I haA-e always clad — 
When I've put on your shirt. 

The hungr}^ I've as often fed 

(And fed, alas ! a sinner,) 
Whene'er I've been, b}- pit}' led, 

To cook or serve your dinner. 

And 5'et these bones, by instinct led, 
Would gladly guide the plough ; 

And by industrious habits fed. 
Are knitting even now. 

Abandon your ancestral fame — 
Henceforth 'twill have no charms 

For one who now can only claim 
But half a Coat-of-Arms. 

And while one limb's of life bereft 

Just utilize the other ; 
I mean, of course, the one that's Left- 

My stupid, twin-born brother. 

But don't expect the awkward fool 
Can often 'come to time ;' 

He could'nt write e'en prose at school- 
Much less a decent rhyme." 



STANZAS. 

To my beloved \\'lfe on the fifth anniversary of our marriage, Nov. 28, 1881. 

'Tis strange how hours to moments sink 

AVhen pleasure rules our dajs ; 
'Tis strange how months like hours appear 

'Neath summer's genial rays ; 
But stranger still how years roll by, 

When most we'd bid them sta}' — 
Such years I mean as loe have seen, 

Five wedded years to-day. 

I bless the hour, my own lov'd wife, 

When first I called you mine ; 
The hand I then did give to thee 

Was gentl}' clasp'd in thine. 
And here again, with vows renewed, 

I pledge what's left of life. 
To her whose smiles have sweetened it, — 

M}^ own, my darling wife. 



188 POETS OF NEW EAMPSHIRE. 

Her gentle tongue a sword doth wield, 

All-potent in its swa}-, 
To conquer e'en ni}' stubborn will, 

And point "the better wa}-." 
When e3-es of black meet hers of blue, 

Fresh life this bosom stirs ; 
I know my heart was purified 

B^' melting it with hers. 

And thus m}' dove I seek thy love ; 

'Tis half I hope of Heaven ! 
Oh cherish mine as part of thine ! 

And ma}' it ne'er be riven 
By sorrow's tears in future years, 

As we march hand in hand 
By twilight rays from Wisdom's ways, 
'Up to the "Better Land." 



Mra. Worthen, a sister of Matthew Harvejs was born in Sutton, September '^7, 
1823. Slie was educated at Andover Academy, and was subsequently a teacher in 
that institution. In 1855 she became the wife of Mr. Charles F. Worthen, now de- 
ceased. Her home is in Lynn, Mass. She has been author of a history of lier na- 
tive town, and is a constant contributor, in ))oth prose and verse, to newspapers 
and magazines. Her poems are lull of original faucy, tender thought, and true 
.sentiment. 



THE LILY'S STORY. 

(On ihiding, in the month of October, a Lily growing in the dry bed of a poud ) 

Linger not within the shadow 

Of the lonely forest pines ; 
See on j'onder hill and meadow, 

Bright October sunlight shines? 
Come, for bright must fall its radiance. 
On the pond where lilies grew, 
Still, perchance, some breath of fragrance 

Hovers o'er its waters blue. 
O'er the rocks the wild vines creeping. 

Flushed with autumn's crimson glow. 
Wondering, see the clouds lie sleeping 

In the mirror depths below. 
We, with such sweet fancies haunted. 

Seek the spot last year so fair. 
Painfully are disenchanted. 

For no pretty pond is there. 
Coarse and rank the weeds are growing 

O'er its dark and oozy bed, 



AUGUSTA HARVEY WORTH EN. 1S<( 

But no rnurmnring brook is flowing 

'Neath the alder-berries red. 
Yet, ill 3'on low quagmire gleaming, 

Something pure and white I see ! 
But, I'm onl}- fondly dreaming — 

Can the flower a Lily be? 
Yes, all fragrant, fresh and smiling 

In October's mellow^ light. 
Me of all sad thoughts beguiling, 

'Twas a Lil}' met my sight. 
None can tell my heart's deep pleasure, 

Half the foolish things it said. 
As I sought the precious treasure — 

Bent me o'er its beauteous head. 
Had my loving admiration 

Waked some sweet responsive thrill? 
Saw I not a faint pulsation 

All its slender stamens All? 
"Why did every petal tremble 

'Neath my warm admiring gaze? 
Might it not its joy dissemble 

At my words of earnest praise ! 
Had it, like the human spirit, 

Longed for recognition too? 
Strong desire did it inherit 

For appreciation true ! 
Wilt thou credit this sweet marvel 

That, 'within my spirit's ear. 
Words of hopeful, earnest counsel 

From the Lil}- I should hear? 
Sweet the tale of jo3- and sorrow 

Which the Lil}^ told to me ; 
Would I might its accents borrow 

While I tell it unto thee. 

Spring was young (thus ran the story) 

Wlien the tiny bud had birth ; 
Came and went the summer's glory 

Ere she bloomed in beauty forth. 
Never on the clear bright billow, 

Lifted from her lowly bed, 
Never on a wavelet pillow 

Hested she her gentle head. 
Still, the torturing, upward-3'earniiig 

Instincts of her dainty race. 
Bade her from the dull earth turning, 



190 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

Rise in purity and grace. 
"Mockery every aspiration, 

Prone and helpless here I lie." 
This in hours of dark temptation 

Was her spirit's anguish cry. 
"Vain the hopes, the longings endless, 

For a freer, brighter life. 
Making me more lone and friendless, 

Wearying me with useless strife. 
Let my better nature perish ; 

Nevermore will 1 aspire, 
Nevermore will seek to cherish 

Higher instinct, pure desire : 
On these weeds will gaze admiring 

Nodding in this earth-born breeze ; 
Coarse, contented, unaspiring. 

Would I were like one of these." 

But the sunbeams on her falling, 

Roused from that despairing chill, 
And the voice within her calling, 

Bade her be a Lily still. 
Wind-borne, from some purer region, 

Came this testimony' free : 
"Fear not, for their name is Legion, 

Who have hoped and toiled like thee. 
Slowly, painfully, thou learnest 

What thy destiny must be ; 
All thine inner promptings earnest 

Are but glorious prophecj'. 
Faithful to thy highest dut}', 

Hope, yet work with heart and will ; 
Thou shalt 3'et arise in beauty, 

Thou shalt be a Lily still." 

Then, as to some touch mysterious, 

P^very inmost heart-string thrilled, 
While her spirit, thoughtful, serious. 

With a wondrous J03' was filled. 
Blessed hours of exaltation ! 

Memories of such rapture rare. 
Saved her from her dark temptation, 

Strengthened her against despair. 
Though no partial friends beholding 

Cheered her with delicious praise. 
All unmarked her slow unfolding 

Through the long, long summer days ; 



AUGUSTA HARVEY WORTHEN. vn 

Though half doubtful of her mission, 

Dreading lest her power might fail, 
Musing on that dream Elysian, 

Hopeful grew the Lil}- pale. 
All its meaning scarce divining. 

Still new efforts she put lorth : 
For the vital moistures pining 

Deeper struck her roots in earth. 
Gratefully, her thirst allaying, 

Every dew-drop gathered up ; 
Choice perfumes from zephyrs stra3'ing, 

Hoarded in her pearly cup. 
Once, to let the sunbeams enter. 

Dared to ope that chalice white ; 
Instantly her heart's deep centre 

Caught their golden radiance bright. 
So she kept her pure corolla 

Free from earthly soil or stain, 
Till the autumn winds blew hollow — 

Fell the welcome autumn rain. 
Then a little pool collected — 

Raised her on her slender stem. 
Then a Lilt was perfected 

Fairer than the fairest gem. 

Toiler, thinker, dreaming poet. 

Doubtful of your highest powers. 
Work in hope, for, ere 3'ou know it. 

Help shall come like autumn showers. 



KEARSARGE TO ITS NAMESAKE. 

A monarch old, m}- court I hold 

A hundred miles away. 
But I look afar as a ship of war 

Comes proudly up the bay. 

I hear the fort, with loud report 

Of cannon's swift discharge. 
Though autumn air shout welcome fair. 

Shout welcome to Kearsarge. 

(ilad tremor thrills the rock-ribbed hills 

That in m}- presence wait. 
From lips of fame they catch the name 

Dear to the Granite State. 



192 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

! Godson brave, thy name J gave, 
For thee I sponsor stood, 

AVith earnest voice 1 pledged thy choice 
To seek thy eountr3''s good. 

1 hear her tell "thou hast done well ! 
For nations that defied, 

Saw thy fierce blows sink traitor foes 
Beneath a foreign tide." 

My thanks, namesake, now freely take, 
Thanks and my welcome too — 

Thou'st brought no shame upon my name, 
I give thee honor due. 

So live and fight for country's right, 

Be loyal, true and brave. 
Till foreign hate share treason's fate, 

Beneath a foreitin wave. 



Mary Whitcher was born in Lawrens, Otsego Co., N. Y. March 31, 1815. She came 
to Shaker Villajre, Canterbury, with her father's family in 1826. Where the 
Shaiter Society is now located was the homestead of her grandfather, Benjamin 
Whitcher, and the birtliplace of her father, Joseph Whitcher. From childhood to 
the present time she has spent her years in a Sliaker community. 



THE SNOW STORM. 

What kindness of our Father, Our weakness and our sin, 

To spread a mantle o'er If we beneath the covering 

All dark and ugly features. Of Mercy would come in. 

Which face of nature bore ! This is the Lord's pavilion ; 
All draped in HI}' whiteness. It covers all below ; 

The rocks and mountains' As doth the rain and sunshine, 
side ; So doth the mantling snow. 

Alike the vales and hill-tops : — Oh when shall we consider 

Thus would our maker hide What God for us hath done ; 
Our darkest wrongs with white- And in that loving kindness 
ness, Deal kindly with each one? 



JamciS Ivennartr. 

James Kennard was born in Portsmouth, Nov. 20, 1815. When sixteen years of 
age he became lame in his right knee, which compelled him to abandon the busi- 
ness he was engaged in. This leg was subsequently amputated, and the other leg 
and his arms aiid lingers became diseased so that his remaining life was spent In 
great sufluring. lie bec^ame also almost blind, and, for many years, till his death in 
1847, was conlined to his bed. His writings, both in prose ami verse, with a memoir 
by Prof. A. P. Peabody, were published in a volume after his decease. He was an 
able writer, and his years of bodily sufl'eriug were not passed in gloom, but in 
g^ttat fortitude and Cnristian resignation. 



JAMES KENNARD. 193 



FOURTH OF JULY. 

A thousand thrilling recollections flash 
From memory's field in vivid colors forth, 
As, starting from my sleep, 1 hear the crash 
Of pealing cannon, and the noisy mirth 
Of joyous multitudes. The dewy earth 
Is not 3'et lighted by the rising sun, 
Yet doth the welkin ring, from south ^to north, 
With cracker, pistol, blunderbus, and gun, 
Proclaiming that the boys have just commenced their fun. 

Memor}' is busy, and I feel almost 
A boy again ; I seem to be once more 
Just springing from my bed, counting as lost 
The time there spent beyond the hour of four. 
Short was my prayer just then, m}- toilet o'er 
In half the usual time, — I grappled quick 
My powder flask and gun, — stole to the door 
All silentl}'. Ah ! then my heart beat thick, 
Lest I betrayed m3'self hy some untimely creak ! 

In vain ma}' parents try to keep their children 
In bed till sunrise on a morn like this, — 
The sounds are so exciting and bewildering, — 
It is a pity thus to mar their bliss ; 
What's more, unless they tie them, they will miss 
The little urchins, if into their bed 
They take a peep, long ere the sun shall kiss 
The hill-tops with his rays. Oft have I fled 
Thus, through the old back window which hangs o'er the shed. 

And when my mother(bless her !) thought me close 
And safe in bed, well out of danger's way, 
Around me then the smoke of powder rose, 
Pealed from mj' gun loud welcomes to the day, 
And careless I pursued my dangerous play ; 
For, on this day of Liberty, I thought 
'Twas quite excusable to disobey 
My parents, (nauglity boy !) and, if not caught. 
My conscience scarcely ever spoilt my morning's sport. 

Bo3's will be boys ; and now, to tell the truth, 
I wish myself a wild young boy again. 
O, in the tlioughtloss joyousness of youth, 
How little is tljere known of care and pain ! 
How little felt the storms of fate which raia 



194 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

So heavily on manhood's hope's, and quench 
In gloom the flame which strives, but strives in vain, 
To gather strength, — sinking beneath the drench 
or careless sorrows, which oft make the strongest blench. 



• WHAT SHALL I ASK IN PRAYER? 

What shall I ask in prayer? Have I not all 

That fortune can bestow of earthly gifts, — 

Health, riches, friends? What shall I ask in prayer? 

That God continue to pour out on me . 

Thus bountifully' all earth's choicest blessings? 

Shall I kneel down, and pray that he will still 

Preserve my health inviolate, sustain 

In all its robust strength this wondrous frame? ' 

That he will still pour wealth into my coffers, 

Nor leave a single wish ungratified 

Which luxui-y can prompt? Or shall I ask 

That friends may 3'et be true ; that time maj' not 

Estrange their hearts from me, nor death destroy? 

Shall I pray thus? No ! let me rather bend 

In fearful, trembling meekness at the shrine : 

Father in heaven ! oh, give me strength to use 

Aright those talents which in wisdom thou 

Committedst to my care ! I am thy steward ; 

And, when the final day of reckoning comes. 

May I then render in a good account ! 

I pray not that thou wouldst continue all 

These earthly blessings ; for thou knowest what 

Is best for me. Should sickness, sorrow, want, 

E'er come upon me, all I ask, O God ! 

Is resigyiation to thy holy will. 

What shall I ask in pra3'er ? Misfortune sweeps 
Resistless over all my eartiily hopes. 
Storm after storm has beat upon mj- head ; 
Broken and scattered to the winds the fabric 
Of all my worldly' greatness. One by one 
My plans have failed ; and, striving to regain 
The ground which I had lost, and seat myself 
Again on Fortune's highest pinnacle, 
I have but overwhelmed myself the more. 
And made m}^ fall the greater. All is gone ! 
Riches have fled ; and deep, corroding care 
Has preyed upon ray very life ; this frame, 



i 



JAMES KENNARD. 195 



Erect in health and manly vigor once, 

Which scarcely knew what illness was, is bowed 

By sickness, — tottering and feeble now 

The once elastic step. Pale is the cheek 

Which once did wear the ruddy glow of health, 

And dim the eye which shone with J03' and hope. 

One comfort only yet remains to me, — 

A gentle friend, true as in former da^'s, 

More kind and more affectionate than ever. 

81ie watches by my bed, and soothes my pain, 

And droops not, though my spirit sinks within me. 

Adversity's thine element, O woman ! — 
What shall I ask in prayer? Shall I send up 
To heaven's gate complaining notes of woe, 
And supplicate Jehovah to give back 
The riches and the health of former days ? 
Doth not the Lord know what is best for me? 
Father above ! I bow beneath the rod : 
Amid the desolation of my hopes 
1 ask but resignation to thy zcill. 

What shall I ask in pra3-er? I have no friend ! 

Misfortune robbed me of my wealth ; and then 

I saw, alas ! the ties which bound my J'riends 

To me were golden strings ; they snapped in twain ; 

My riches fled ; and friendshijy was no more ! 

Death snatched away my last, true, onl^- friend. 

She died ! and I am left alone to drag 

In misery the burden of my life along. 

Grim famine stares ; and sickness eats into 

M}' very vitals, nor permits repose. 

Poor, friendless, sick, — 1 raise my thoughts to heaven. 

What shall I ask in prayer? Shall 1 besiege 
God's throne with lamentations? Shall 1 \nay 
That he restore to me health, riches, friends? 
Then would m^- sorrows have been all in vain. 
Ilealtii makes us thoughtless that a time will come 
When "dust returns to dust;" and riches are 
Too prone to keep our thoughts from higher things ; 
And friends do often fill the heart so whoUv 
That not one thought of God can gain admittance. 
"'Tis good for me that I have been afflicted." 
I thank thee, God ! and, should there be in store 
Yet further trials, strengthen me, 1 pray, 
And give iiie spiritual health, and let 



196 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

M}' riches be laid up in Iieaven above ! 
My- everlasting Friend, thou God of mercy ! 
In earthly troubles, Lord ! I only ask 
For resignation to thy holy will. 



iiflidjael smentbiorti) met, 

Michael W. Beck was born in Portsmouth, November 20, 1815. His father was Sam- 
uel Beck, brother to Gideon Beck, editor and publisher of the New Hampshire Ga- 
zette. After the death of Michael's father he was adopted by his uncle Gideon. At 
an early age he began an active bu.->iness life as a practical printer. Soon after 
completing his apprenticeship in the office of the Gazette, in 1832, he went to Boston, 
and worked in the office of Tuttle & Weeks, printers. While at work there he often . 
contributed poetry to the columns of tlie Boston Post. In 1837 Mr. Beck went to Saco, 
Maine. He purcliased, in compauy witli another, the .^[aine Democrat. In the man- 
agement of tills paper he was ho'ih pi-intiT and editor, and so intense was his ap- 
plication to the Ijusiness of tlie estaldishincut, that his physical constitution became 
aflfected, by a disease, which early terminated his earthly career. His intellectual 
powers were sti-ong and active, and, for one of his years, well matui-ed. His reputa- 
"■fion as a political writer stood deservedly high. He died at Portsmouth, March 9. 
1843. 



THE WORLD AS IT IS. 

This world is not so bad a world 

As some would wish to make it ; 
Though whether good, or whether bad, 

Depends on how we take it. 
For il' we scold and fret all day. 

From dew}'^ morn till even. 
This world will ne'er afford to man 

A foretaste here of heaven. 

This world in truth's as good a world 

As e'er was known to any 
Who have not seen another yet 

(And these are veiy many ;) 
And if the men and women too 

Have plent}^ of employment. 
Those surely must be hard to please. 

Who cannot find enjoyment. 

This world is quite a clever world 

In rain, or pleasant weather. 
If people would but learn to live 

In harmony together ; 
Nor seek to break the kindly bond 

B}' love and peace cemented. 
And learn that best of lessons yet, 

To always be contented. 

Then were the world a pleasant world, 
And pleasant folks were in it : 



LKANDER CLARK. 197 



The da}' would pass most pleasantly 
To those who thus begin it ; 

And all the nameless grievances 
Brought on b}- borrowed troubles 

A\^ould prove, as certainly they are, 
A mass of empty bubbles ! 



THE SOUL. 

Whence came the intellectual ray 

That lights the eye with fire, 
That earthward will not bide its stay, 

But heavenward bids aspire? 
Is it a spark from God's high throne. 

Given with our earliest breath? 
And will he claim it as his own, 

When we are chilled in death? 

Oh, precious faith ! cling to my breast/ 

A hallowed pilgrim there : 
When to my bosom thou art pressed, 

How free am I from care ! 
Let sickness rage, let pain invade 

My vitals for its food. 
No doubt my faith shall make afraid. 

Nor aught be mine but good. 

Through death's dark valley I must tread. 

Ere youth's fair sun is set : 
Calmly resigned, I bow my head. 

And earth's vain joys forget. 
The spark that gleams, the jewelled soul. 

The casket thrown away, 
8hall mingle with that perfect whole 

Til at forms God's brightest day ! 



Erantirr OTlaviv. 

in Tiiw iisond, Mass., Marcli, 
parents to New Iiit^wicli when cijilii years of age, and was edueated at tlieVvpiIie'! 
ton Academy, lie went to Ho^lon in ls3!)and heeanie a portrait painter. Altera 
while he eanie to Nashua and [iractised his profession for a year or more, when he 
removeil to Uedford, Mass., where he remained aliout two years. Then lie return- 
ed lo IJoslon. still busy at i)ainting. After .s<mie years hedi.sposed of his studio 



Leander Clark was horn in Townsend, Mass., Mareh, 17, ISlfi. He ramc with hU 
parents to New Ipswieh wl ' ' ■ ' 




to paintin.;,', which he likes belter than any other employmeut. As a poet he ranks 
Uigh, as will be seen by Ins poems here given. 



198 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

SONG. 

When hearth and liall were lighted 

To Evenhig silent guest 
And rudd}' tires were paling, 

In the chambers of the west, 
I met her at the garden gate, 

The maiden I love best, 

While, dusl^ and gray, 

Departing day 
Sank to the isles of rest. 

We loitered with the streamlets, 

The yellow sheaves between. 
Or stood above the torrent. 

Where the silver birches lean ; 
Far on the shining stubble 

Shone the reaper's nightly beam. 

Beneath whose gl'ow. 

On fallows low, 
The ploughman drove his team. 

She leaned upon my bosom, 

And her locks were wet with dew. 
And speechless was the rapture. 

As our lips together grew ; 
O fragrant with the harvest, 

Were the airs that o'er us blew, 

Till Dian queen, 

From o'er the scene. 
Her silent orb witlidrew. 

Her foot is like the zephyr, 

Her voice is low and sweet, 
Her laugh is like the ripple. 

When the woodland fountains meet ; 
And like reflected glimpses. 

Where the waves run wide and fleet, 

Her glances bright, 

With azure light. 
The golden spell complete. 



A DIRGE. 

Where the whispering cypress glooms, 
Daphne}' she lies cold and low ; 
Bring to her all fragrant blooms 
Of the fairest flowers that blow. 



LEANDER CLARK. 199 

There let babbling runnels break, 
Westering winds blow in j'our stops, 
And with songful dirges make 
Verberaut the cedar tops. 

Joy shall now no more attend 
In the walks where she has been ; 
Weeping memor}' must bend 
O'er the melancholy scene. 

Viewless Echo like a voice 
From each cliff shall wail and cry ; 
Birds shall sorrow that rejoice, 
Making mournful melody. 

Dreary visions now embrace 
All the dreamful hours of rest ; 
Melancholy bends her mace 
O'er the sorrow-stricken breast. 

Daphnej' she is dead and gone 
Where the whispering cypress glooms ; 
Night or morning she sleeps on 
In the silent place of tombs. 



LINES. 



Like as a roll of carded wool, 
That many a careful wife doth pull, 
And off her spindle quickly run. 
So soon our thread of life is spun. 

Like as a weaver's shuttle pla3-s, 
From hand to hand, even so our daj-s. 
From morn to evening swiftly run. 
Until the web of life is done. 



FAITH AND PIOPE. 

When the mind, oppressed with sadness, 
Drapes the outer world in gloom, 

Faith, that brings the dawn of gladness, 
Can that seeming night relume. 



200 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Such is Hope unto the sainted, 
When in hfe's serene decay, 

All the threatuing clouds are painted 
With the magic of her raj-. 



SONNET. 

I would not crave an unction of the high, 
Nor blessings from the low, the heart can keep 
The council of its sorrow, can put by 
The tender solace of a frequent sigh. 

And turn its tears to ashes but not weep. 
When I am dead I prithee let me sleep, 
Nor bring such gifts as willing hands bestow, 
On man}' a ridged and grass betufted heap ; — 
But let the sun shine and the west winds blow, 
Upon the green roof of my mansion low — 
And the leaves rustle, and the moonbeams dwell. 
And the rude night winds whistle as they go, 
And on the deaf ear of the dead shall swell, 
The dirges of the deep and the far billows' knell.- 



SONNET. 

Bird of the wild, why art thou still so sad — 

To set th}- full throat trembling at a la}' ? 
Is it that I in mournful weeds am clad, 

Or dost thou chant the dirgeful knell of day ? 
The somber aspect of the twilight gra}'. 

The silent moon, that silvers o'er each height, 
The glow-worm's lamp, that glimmers far aw^a}'. 

In grassy glades, O wakeful bird of night ! 
Are they not leaves, from whence thou dost indite 

That wild melodious clamor? If for mine, 
Or any mortal sorrow, is the plight 

In which, sweet bird, tbou nightly dost repine ; 
O, take thy bosom from such cruel thorn. 

And leave to earthly man his grief forlorn. 



HESTER MORELAND. 

Sweet Hester Moreland, how I love the name, 

The very door she enters I adore. 
I've seen some belles and beauties known to fame, 



LEANDER CLARK. 201 



And, though I cheerfully admit their claim, 
They're not so fair a mark for Cupid's aim 
As Hester More land, whom I named before. 

Twas rather foolish, but we took a miff 

At some unguarded words we both deplore, 

That when we met at church, or Cedar Cliff, 
To see the cattle show, we bowed as if 

Our heads and shoulders had been getting stiff — 
'Twas very foolish, as I said before. 

At length I wrote her, saying I would call ; 

That "this estrangement I must needs deplore." 
She wrote in answer, " do indeed \>y all 

That's sweet and sacred, trust these tears and call, 
For where love enters pride must have a fall. 

Yes, call indeed, love, as I said before." 

The bats were stirring, and the stars began 

To twinkle as she met me at the door, 
For love is sweetest in the silent van 
Of coming shadows, when no e^-e may scan, 

And bats are stirring, as I said before. 

"Let's walk, dear Sand}-, and before 3-ou go 

We'll make it up, " she said, "and frown no more ; 

I know you love me, for you told me so ; 

That I love you as w^ell, I know you know, 
So let us walk, love, as I said before." 

" Then kiss me, Hester, sweet as blossomed peas, 
And press to mine the lips that I adore, 

For only kisses can the heart appease 

And of its sore regrets the bosom ease ; 
O, kiss me, dearest, as I said before." 

'Twas what we needed, so we kissed and kissed, 
And when we'd kissed awhile we kissed some more. 

In love as we were how could we resist 

The panacea we so long had missed, 
And so much needed, as 1 said before. 

Few words suffice for lovers to explain ; 

Vouug hearts are tender to the very core ; 
Though oft perverse and eager for the pain 
That frowns iinjjart, wc soon make up again. 

And hope to kiss and kiss forevermo^e. 



202 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

INTRAMUROS. 

At the dead middle of a moonless night 
Something awoke me, and there shone a light 

Within my room ; 
I looked and listened for some token near, 
When these just words of wisdom smote my ear 

From out the gloom. 

"He that would shun the stroke of fate 
Let wisdom show him his estate 

Before he fall. 
Life is beset with gins and snares, 
And wicked waj's and guilty stairs 

Mislead us all. 

Then dream not Pleasure's flickering light 
Will lead thy erring steps aright. 

Delusive beam ! 
It shines o'er sepulchres and tombs. 
Gilding the horror of their glooms 

More than a dream. 

Pursue nor Chance, her barge of fate, 
Nor chartless Fortune with the freight 

That doth betra}-. 
For in the perils of their wake 
Th}' phantom-chasing sail shall make 

Nor port nor h^iy. 

Regard not wealth, who ties the marts 
In masonry of sordid arts 

That men employ ; 
Her dust the idle palm may fee 
But in the free soul's treasury 

'Tis base alloy. 

O trust not Love ; 'tis like the brook 
That through thy garden's flowery nook 

Soft murmuring flows, 
But in its windings to the sea 
It laughs and ripples fancy-free 

AYhere e'er it goes. 

Trust not the seeming friend, for he ^ 
Is like the shadow of a tree 

That steals away. 
At first slow gliding from its place 
But ere its distant point ye trace 
' 'Tis gone for aye. 



MA BY B. HOSMEB. 203 

Esteem not Honor, Glory, Fame, 
The noise, the ])lazon, of a name, — 

The}' pass away ; 
They are the world's prerogative, 
But to th' aspiring soul can give 

Nor help nor sta3\ 

Search not the guilds for stamps of birth, 
Through pedigrees of dubious worth 

And doubtful claim. 
Let thine own deeds emboss the field 
Of that escutcheon thou ma^'st wield 

For praise or blame. 

Think not the fault in thee removed. 
But know that all thy ways are grooved 

Of ancient use ; 
He who himself hath justly scanned 
And knows his fault, — he can command 

Of Death a truce." 



Mrs. Ilosmer, a daushter of Benjamin A. and Martha Clark, of New Jpswlcli, 
and a sister of tlie precedinfr poet, was born October, 8(i, lS-20. tshe received hov 
education at the Apiikton Acacicniy, in that town, and ;it Jliss ("atharine Fiske's 
Ladies' Seminary in Kccnc. In l.'-4l"she was married to ('astalio Ilosmer of Nash- 
ua, where tlicy resided till 1844, when tlie\- removed to Roxburv, Jlass. In 1848, 
tliey went to Kankakee City, III. In ISiMiMr. Ilosmer was appointed to oflice by 
President Lincoln, and renioved to Washington, D. C., where thev now reside. 
Mrs. Ilosmer is well kuowu in literary circles and is a writer of genuine poetry. 



THE BEGGAR'S CHRISTMAS EVE. 

What ails the night that it moans so loud, 

Moans so loud and drearily? 

Doth it moan for the homeless and famished ones 

That roam the street so wearily ? 

While close to this doorway I shivering creep, 

Wail on, oh ! night, there is cause to w^eep, 

W^hen half God's children are starving and cold, 

With never a bed but the earth's brown mold. 

"Peace on earth and good will to men," 
This was the song of angels when 
The}' sang of old on Judea's plains ; 
Yet still the rich want all their gains, 
Forgetting that peace can never be 
'Mid squalor ami hunger and poverty. 
How long would this doorwa}' a shelter be 
If they knew within that it sheltered me? 



204 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Oh ! ye that prate of "Christian graces," 
And school your sanctimonious faces, 
And look on tlie poor with cold disdain, 
"Giving your alms to be seen of men ;" 
Do 3'e follow the "gentle Nazarene?" 
In povert3''s haunts are ye often seen ? 
No ; 3'ou gather your skirts and pass us by, 
And look with scorn on such as I. 

In 3^onder princely hall I see 
The bending bouglis of a Christmas tree ; 
Tliere all is briglit and warm as the sun, 
While here I sit on this cold door-stone. 
And think myself lucky if those within 
Hear not my w^ail through the wild night's din, 
"Peace on earth and good will" were sent; 
Was this the "peace" the angels meant? 

"Good will to men !" doth it come in rags, 
Or "Peace on eartli" to the foot that drags 
Its weary wa}' through tlie filth and dirt 
Which sticks not alone to poverty's skirts? 
Yes, "Peace on eartli," it is coming now, 
I feel its touch on m}' icy brow ; 
The only peace to poverty given. 
That peace which opens the gates of heaven. 

The}' are opening wide ! my soul pass in, 

Out from these rags so w^orn and thin. 

Into the light and warmth of heaven, 

There shall the peace which I ask be given ; 

While this poor bod}' so worn with woe, 

They shall find in the morn 'neath the Christmas snow. 



AFTER SEVENTEP:N YEARS 

I'm nearing home ! the mountain's breath 
Blows o'er my cheek and softly saith ; 
"Come thou long-wanderer to my breast. 
Here let th}' feet awhile find rest." 

I'm nearing home, a few green hills 
Lie 'tween me and the spot that thrills 
The sweetest memories of my soul, — 
My childhood's home, that longed-for goal. 

I'm nearing home, the steam-fed horse 
Bellows his presence loud and hoarse, 



MABY B. nOSMEB. 205 



Swift]}- he glided past town and hill, 
Slowly he stops ; the monster's still. 

I step out in the twilight gre}', 
September eve as soft as Ma}' ; 
The rich, ripe air alone ma}- tell 
How gathered fruits their garners swell. 

Adown the old familiar wold 
Where oft my childish feet have strolled, 
The trees are fairer, taller, grown, 
The same old brook goes murmuring on. 

The hale old elm with verdant crown 
Reaches its arms with welcome down, 
And the soft greeiisward neath my feet 
Seemeth to give me welcome sweet. 

In at the window now I peer ; 

Thanks, Time ! though'st wrought no changes here, 

The evening lamp with cheerful glow, 

Seemeth to say, come ! enter now. 

I lift the latch ! a solemn thrill 
Sweeps o'er my soul, my heart stands still, 
Hark ! w-ell-known voices greet my ear, 
I listening pause almost in fear. 

Across the floor with noiseless tread 
I steal ; do not th' returning dead 
Feel as I feel, when they softly glide, 
And stand close by some loved one's side ? 

Two forms I see through joyous tears 
Erect beneath their fourscore years — 
One bound and I am in the arms 
That led me safe through childhood's harms. 

O Father ! lengthen out their years. 
Save them from pain, from griefs and tears. 
And oft may I rejoicing come 
Again to my New England home. 



TWILIGHT MUSINGS. 

After Charlotte Bronte; in Shirley, Chap. 18. 

Nature is at her vespers now. 

She is kneeling on the mountain's brow ; 

The grand steps of her altar rise 

Up the rough peak to the evening skies. 



206 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Her altar fire is burning bright, — 
Art cannot catch its lovelj' light, 
Nor the glowing blush she hides awa}', 
p''rom the ardent gaze of the god of day. 

The evening star clasps her purple zone. 

Her misty hair to the breeze is thrown, 

A white cloud like a vail sweeps down, 

While lightning plays 'round her star-gemmed crown. 

Her purple robe o'er the valley spreads 

Where yonder flocks bend low their heads ; 

Darkness awaits with mantle gra}', 

To wrap her from my sight away. 

Her steadfast eyes, — like the lake's deep blue. 

Are lifted in worship, — the evening dews 

Like tears of faith are trembling there. 

As she solemnly breathes her evening prayer. 

Her bosom clothed with purple heath, 

Her mighty hands clasped underneath, 

She bends her forehead to the sod, 

Thus, face to face, she speaks wath God. 



OUR SOLDIERS' GRAVES. 

Twine lovely wreaths to deck the honored graves 
Where sleep the ashes of our noble dead ; 

Wi'eathe the dark laurel, green as ocean waves, — 
AYith reverence place it o'er each patriot head. 

Bring our loved ensign, o'er them let it wave, 

The dear "old flag," beneath whose folds thej' fell; 

Long may the nation live the}' died to save, 
Briglit be their memory who died so well. 

For the dear sacrifice so freel}' given 

Here let the nation bow itself and weep ; 

Gently let falling tears, like dews of heaven, 

Water each mound where our brave patriots sleep. 

Place a white tablet o'er each noble breast, 
And let their glowing record there be found ; 

This be our Mecca, wliere our soldiers rest, 

Shield we from impious hands each sacred mound. 

But not alone to him of high renown 

Shall pteans rise and words of praise be given. 

Bring brightest laurels for the dead " unknown," 
Whose records, lost to earth, are bright in heaven. 



HARRIET N. DONELERT. 207 

The solemn minute-gun, the warrior's knell, 

For them is booming over land and sea, 
While o'er their graves the winds, that sigh and swell, 

Their soft and mournful requiem shall be. 

Rest, savior patriots, in your narrow beds. 
While all about you Nature's voices ring ; 

Far brighter crowns await your noble heads 
Than the sweet tributes which we hither bring. 



f^arrict N. ZDouclcrg. 

Mrs. Donelery, a daughter of Kev. Stephen Farlc}-, is a native of Claremont. 
While ail oin-rative in the Lowell mills she started ana edited lor some years that 
unique mi)iithlv called the Loivell Ojj'eriiiy ur Factory Operath-es' Magazine, she 
was educated at the Atkinson Academy of which her father was principal, alter 
his removal trom (Jlaremont, where he had been settled as pastor ot tiie Congrega- 
tional Church from ISOtj to iSiS. She had nine brothers and sisters, all of wliom 
have died of pulmonary disease. She became the wife of John Uonelery, Ksq., of 
Philadelphia. 



SUNSET. 

Come with me, brother, forth, and view the sun, 

How he goes down in glory. Brilliant light 

Is in the air : and brilliance on the waves. 

Fiach slight, thin cloud is now irradiate. 

And, 'neath our feet we tread the onl}' shade. 

Thou wast not here last eve ; and sawest not 

His other glorious, valedictory suit. 

Downward he came — dowai, from the chaos thick 

Of a wild storm, which, like a troubled deep. 

Left the dark sky, and sailed into a smooth 

And golden sea, which shimmered in the west ; 

Then, downward still, behind the riven cloud, 

Which, like a massive, broken wall, was there 

Upon the horizon low ; and, even like 

The glowing parapets of heaven, was rich 

In ruby and in amethystine hues. 

l>ike the hot glow of living fire was light 

Behind that bastion cloud ; and then the sun 

Went down below the earth, while, far awaj', 

(xleaming through eveiy rift and broken space. 

Spread the rich mantling blush, and, upward there, 

Inverted billows of the deep above 

Caught on their hanging heads a crimson cap, 

And hovered like a gay and liveried host. 

O'er his farewell descent. He grows not old, 



208 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Like temples which their ruins strew around 
Us here ; but fresh, unworn, and strong, as in 
That da}' when set in firmament above. 
Brother, he now has bade us all adieu. 
And left the world to moonlight and to dreams. 



ORILLA. 

Yes, thou art bright and beautiful, 

Though but of lowly birth ; 
Thou takest, with all joyous things, 

Th}^ place upon the earth ; 
Thy voice is song, th}' step a dance. 

Thy childish tasks but pla}^ ; 
Thou sportest with the birds and lambs, 

As innocent as they. 

But in the future let us look. 

For that which thou may'st hope ; 
It little needs divining skill. 

Or cast of horoscope ; 
Thy simple garb bespeaks a life 

Of ill-requited toil ; 
Thy fate has linked thee to a band 

Who ceaseless delve and moil. 

Thy glowing cheek, thy brow so full, 

Th}' softl}^ brilliant eye, 
Tell me how deeply thou must share 

Our woman's destiny : 
Thou' It love and grieve, but still through all 

Thou'lt haplessly live on, 
And learn how life will linger still. 

When all its jo^'s are gone. 

Yes, woman's»task — a peasant's wife 

I there before thee see. 
To be in some rude hut the drudge, 

Some clown's divinity ; 
To rise at morn with early sun. 

With dew and opening flowers. 
But only strive to break thy fast 

In all those glorious hours. 

Thy southern sun his radiant warmth 
Above thy cot shall shed, 



HARRIET N. DONELERT. 209 

And thou'lt rejoice, because thy fire 

Need not so oft be fed. 
Thy clear, bright moon, her gentle rays 

At night shall o'er thee throw ; 
Thou'lt bless it as thine only lamp, 

When to thy rest thou'lt go. 

And yet, of all that's high and pure, 

Thou shalt not be divest, 
For still shall beat a woman's heart 

Warmly within thy breast. 
Deeming it not unworthy' lot 

To live for others' weal, 
For others' sakes to sacrifice, 

To suffer and to feel ; — 

To know that through thy toil and care. 

Thy strength, though weak it be, 
Has been support and cheer to him 

Who guides thy destin}' ; 
That still, though poor and rude, thou hast 

A share in many a heart ; 
That peasant mourners o'er thy grave 

Will weep when thou depart. 



SONS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Read at 2nd N. H. Festival, Boston, Nov. 2, 1853. 

Sons of New Hampshire ! like the pilgrims olden, 
Wandering from birth-place to a better home 

Bearing still on the ark, and angels golden, 
In whose pure worship to this feast you come : 

Sons of New Hampshire ! I, a daughter lowly. 

Would lay my "offering" on this shrine so holy. 

M}' orphan mite ! the love that ne'er forgetting 
Those heavens that met at first my wandering ej'e. 

The broad green vales, and old Ascutney setting 
His glistening brow against the eternal sky. 

The mountains high in the far distance showing. 

The broad Connecticut, in grandeur flowing. 

Sons of New Hampshire ! gathered near the ocean, 
Where man}' lands their luxury combine, 

!May it not be another "Boston notion" 

That this is better than those homes of thine? 

Than the hard soil, with all its mountain grit. 

For any home your souls and frames could fit. 



210 POETS OF NEW EAMPSniRE. 

But from the altar j'ou have raised so beauteous, 
With shorter speed than sigh, I turn away, 

Leaving a daughter's heart and greeting duteous. 
With the strong brothers gathered here to-da}- ; 

vSons of New Hampshire, each and all, adieu ; 

A sister's benison I leave with you. 



Sarai) Sijetitr, 

Miss Shedd was a native of Washington. She was for some years an operative 
in tlie mills at Lowell, Mass. At her decease, iu 186S, she left, by her will, $ 2.500, 
to her native town for the purchase of a free library. The library is a great bless- 
ing to the citizens of the town, containing about 2000 valuable books. 



AN INDIAN MAIDEN'S LAMENT ON THE BANKS OF 
THE SACO. 

A maiden came with a queenly air ; 
Her eye was dark, and dark was her hair ; 
On the rock}' banks of her own fair stream 
She sat her down for one final dream. 

O strong were the thoughts o'er her bosom that rushed ! 
A moment she spoke, then was silent and hushed ; 
But I caught up the words of her wild, sweet lay 
Borne on the breeze as they floated away. 

O Saco, blessed Saco ! my childhood's own river ! 
I've traced all thy streamlets with bow and with quiver. 
I've tracked the wild deer as he sped to the mountain, 
And startled the hare as he laved in thy fountain. 

I've watched the bright glow of each foam-crested billow, 
As I sat on thy banks and braided the willow. 
How bright was the sunshine, how golden its hue, 
As I danced o'er thy waves in m}^ birchen canoe. 

In thy broad flowing mirror I've braided my tresses, 
And bound my long hair with thy wild water cresses, 
And painted my cheek with the breeze from thy waters. 
And joyed that they called me a brave 'mong thy daughters. 

How I've hushed m}^ glad heart, and stifled its beating 
To list the glad anthem thou art ever repeating ; 
l,thought the Great Spirit would leave thee, no, never ! 
That I near thy waters should wander forever. 

No more, O, no more shall the laugh of my brother 
Blend in sweet chorus, nor smile of my mother 



SARAH SHEDJ). 211 



Light th}' dark wave ; my tribe have departed 
And left roe a lone one, say not broken hearted. 

Like thee, kindred Saco, I sing in mj' sadness, 
Tiie pale face has wronged me, I yield not to madness ; 
]VIy father a chieftain ! shall I his proud daughter 
Stoop to low carnage, or think now of slaughter? 

1 hear thee, obey thee, thou great, mighty Spirit ; 
I haste to the land where my fathers inherit ; 
Farewell thou blest Saco ! I weep and adore thee ; 
1 bow to the warning and pass on before thee. 



OLD DRAPER HILL. 

Old Draper Hill ! Old Draper Hill, 
Peace throbbing heart, be still, be still. 
What floods of memory through me thrill 
At thy blest name. Old Draper Hill ! 

In life's young hours when called to rise, 
When day sped up the eastern skies, 
I turned me to thy forehead fair. 
As morning broke in glory there. 

How often since, I've climbed thy height 
AVith friend so gay, of heart so light, 
To drink tiie fragrant morning air, 
Grandeur with beauty blending there. 

Where e'er I turn with graphic eye, 
Some hidden memory seems to lie. 
The faces fade, the forms are still. 
Thou art the same Old Draper Hill, 

A grand old dome there Lovell lies 
Piercing with rocky crest the skiers ; 
While sleeping here a Mountain Lake 
With every breeze will start and wake. 

From out its breast a silver rill 
Runs rippling round the dear old hill. 
Whose strength antl beauty handicral't 
Compels to turn a ponderous shaft ; 

Wliere milk-white cottages appear 
And flowers their tender petals rear. 
While from its bounds the rill is seen, 
Winding along green banks between. 



212 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

A village here lies at my feet. 
My native village, O ! how sweet ! 
Here 1113' 3'oung heart was taught to pray 
And my young lips what words to say. 

I've trod by sea, by mount, and been 
Familiar in the haunts of men, 
But dearest find the place and jo^'s 
Where childhood garnered up its toys. 



Euclla J. B. OTa^e. 

Mrs. Case was a daughter of the late Levi Bartlett and a grand-daughter of the 
revolutiouary patriot Josiah Bartlett. She was a native of Kingston, and in 1838 
was married to E. Case then of Lowell. They removed to Cincimiati, Ohio. Mrs. 
Case's poems and prose writings have nearly all been published in "Miscellanies, 
editetl by her friend, the late Mrs. Edgertou Mayo." 



THE DOOMED RACE. 

Ay, time ! ye have waned like the phantom hosts 

Of morn on the mist}' lea ; 
Your arrow's sharp hurtle hath left our coasts. 

The plash of 3'our oars our sea ; 
Where Metacom strode in his chieftain pride 

The wigwam is seen no more ; 
And long, long ago hath the council-fire died 

On the Old Dominion's shore. 

Your trail o'er the green Alleghanian vales 

Is the track of the evening dew, 
And the war-whoop that swells on the prairie gales 

Is the wail of the faint and few. 
Ye know 3'e are doomed — a perishing race. 

Like the leaves of the autumn blast ; 
Ye know that the Saxon is waiting your place, 

And 3-6 must belong to the past. 

The arm of the red chief is wear3^ of blood — 

His heart is forgetting its hate ; 
Too long hath he striven to battle the flood 

Of swift and remediless fate. 
He bows to the current he may not stem 

With a spirit all torn and crushed ; 
And he will find pit3' where inen condemn. 

When his dying moan is hushed. 

Alas for 3'e, people of little light ! 
Your prowess so stern and wild, 



LUELLA J. B. CASE. 213 

Your few simple virtues will pass, and night 

Envelope the forest child ; 
And history alone in some mould}- arch 

Enshrine the lost Indian brave ; 
0, sad is the thought that mind's triumph march 

Must be o'er a nation's grave ! 



A DEATH SCENE. 

'Tis evening's hush : the first faint shades are creeping 
Through the still room, and o'er the curtained bed 

Where lies a weary one, all calml\- sleeping, 
Touched with the twilight of the land of dread. 

Death's cold gray shadow o'er her features falling, 
Marks her upon the threshold of the tomb ; 

Yet from within no sight nor sound appalling. 
Comes o'er her spirit with a thought of gloom. 

See, on her palid lip bright smiles are wreathing, 
While from the tranquil gladness of her breast, 

Sweet, holy words in gentlest tones are breathing : 
" Come unto me and I will give you rest." 

Night gathers round — chill, moonless, yet with tender. 
Mild, radiant stars, like countless angel-eyes. 

Bending serenely, from their homes of splendor, 
Above the couch where that meek dreamer lies. 

The hours wear on : the shaded lamp burns dimmer. 
And ebbs that sleeper's breath as wanes the night. 

And still with looks of love those soft stars glimmer 
Along their pathways of unchanging light. 

She slumbers still, and the pale, wasted fingers 
Are gentl}' raised, as if she dreamed of prayer; 

And on that lip so wan the same smile lingers, 
And still those trustful words are trembling there. 

"J'he night is done ; the cold and solemn dawning 
With stately tread goes up the eastern sky ; 

But vain its power, and vain the i)ouip of morning 
To lift the darkness from that dying eye. 

Yet Heaven's full joy is on that spirit beaming ; 

The soul has A^und its higher, happier birth, 
And brighter shapes flit through its bless(f'd dreaming 

Than ever gather round the sleep of earth. 



2 1 4 FOE T8 OF NE W HAMP8HIBE. 

The sun is high, but from those pale lips parted, 
No more those words float on the languid breath, 

Yet still the expression of the happy-hearted 

Has triumphed o'er the mournful shades of death. 

Through the hushed room the midday ray has wended 
Its glowing pinion to a pulseless breast : 

The gentle sleeper's mortal dreams are ended — 
The soul has gone to Him who gives it rest. 



Harry Hibbard was born in Concord, Vt., June 1, 181B. He graduated at Dart- 
mouth College in 183.i; was assistant clerk in the New Hampshire House of Repre- 
sentatives in 1830 ; cleric of the same from 1840 to 1843 ; speaker of the House in 1844 
and 1845 ; a member of the State Senate from 1840 to 1849 and was President of that 
body in 1848 and 1849. He was a Representative in Congress from this State from 
1849 to 1855. He resided in Lancaster and lastly in Bath, where he died in 1873. 
The poem here given was originally published in the Democratic Review, April, 
1839, and has been extensively read and justly admired. 



FRANCONIA MOUNTAIN NOTCH. 

The blackening hills close round : the beetling cliff 
On either hand towers to the upper sky. 
I pass the lonely inn ; the yawning rift 
Grows narrower still, until the passer-by 
Beholds himself walled in b}- mountains high, 
Like everlasting barriers, which frown 
Around, above, in awful majesty : 
Still on, the expanding chasm deepens down, 
Into a vast abyss which circling mountains crown. 

The summer air is cooler, fresher, here. 
The breeze is hushed, and all is calm and still ; 
Above, a strip of the blue heaven's clear 
Cerulean is stretched from hill to hill, 
Through which the sun's short transit can distil 
No breath of fainting sultriness ; the soul 
Imbued with love of nature's charms, can fill 
Itself with meditation here, and hold 
Communion deep with all tliat round it doth unfold. 

Thou reader of these lines, who dost inherit 

That love of earth's own loveliness which flings 

A glow of chastened feeling o'er the spirit, 

And lends creation half its colorings 

Of light and beautj' ; who from living things 

Dost love to 'scape to that beatitude 

Which from converse with secret nature springs, 



HARE T HIBBARD. 2 1 5 

Fly to this green and shady solitude, 
High hills, clear streams, blue lakes, and everlasting wood. 

And as thou musest mid these mountains wild. 
Their grandeur thy rapt soul will penetrate. 
Till with thj'self thou wilt be reconciled, 
If not with man ; tln^ thoughts will emulate 
Their calm sublime, thy little passions, hate, 
Envying and bitterness, if such be found 
"Within th}' breast, these scenes will dissipate, 
And lend thy mind a tone of joy profound. 
An impress from the grand and mighty scenes around. 

Here doth not wake that thrill of awe ; that feeling 
Of stern sublimity, which overpowers 
The mind and sense of him whose foot "is scaling 
The near White Mountain Notch's giant towers ; 
Here is less grandeur but more beauty ; bowers 
For milder, varied pleasure ; in the sun 
Blue ponds and streams are glancing, fringed with flowers ; 
There all is vast and overwhelming ; one 
Is Lafa3'ette, the other, matchless Washington I 

Great names ! presiding spirits of each scene. 
Which here their mountain namesakes overlook ; 
'Tis well to keep their memories fresh and green 
By thus inscribing them within the book 
Of earth's enduring records, where will look 
Our children's children ; till the crumbling hand 
Of time wastes all things ; ever}' verdant nook 
And ever}^ crag of these proud hills shall stand 
Their glory's emblems o'er our proud and happy land ! 

Where a tall post beside the road displa3-s 
Its lettered arm, pointing the traveller's ca'c. 
Through the small opening mid the green birch trees, 
Toward yonder mountain summit towering high. 
There pause : what doth th v anxious gaze espy ? 
An abrupt crag hung from the mountain's brow ! 
Look closer ! scan that bare, sharp cliff on high ; 
Aha ! the wondrous shape bursts on thee now ! 
A perfect human face — neck, chin, mouth, nose and brow ! 

And full and plain those features are displayed. 
Thus profiled forth against the clear, blue sky, 
As though some sculptor's chisel here had made 
This fragment of colossal imagery. 
The compass of his plastic art to try. 



216 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

From the curved neck up to the shaggy hair 
That shoots in pine trees from the head on high, 
All, all is perfect ; no illusions there 
To cheat the expecting eye with fancied forms of air. 

Most wondrous vision ! the broad earth hath not 
Through all her bounds an object like to thee, 
That traveller e'er recorded, nor a spot 
More fit to stir the poet's phantas}'. 
Gray Old Man of the Mountain, awfully 
There from th}^ wreath of clouds thou dost uprear 
Those features grand, the same eternallj' ; 
Lone dweller mid the hills ! with gaze austere 
Thou lookest down, methinks, on all below thee here ! 

And curious travellers have descried the trace 
Of the sage Franklin's physiognomy 
In that most grave and philosophic face ; 
If it be true, Old Man, that we do see 
Sage Franklin's countenance, thou indeed must be 
A learned philosopher, most wise and staid. 
From all that thou hast had a chance to see, 
Since earth began. Here thou, too, oft hast played 
With lightnings, glancing frequent round thy rugged head. 

Thou sawest the tawn}' Indian's light canoe 
Glide o'er the pond that glistens at thy feet, 
And the white hunter first emerge to view 
From up 3'on ravine where the mountains meet, 
To scare the red man from his ancient seat. 
Where he had roamed for ages, wild and free. 
The motle}^ stream which since from ever}' state 
And clime through this wild vale pours ceaselessly. 
Travellers, ga}^ tourists, all have been a theme to thee. 

In thee the simple-minded Indian saw 
The image of his more benignant God, 
And viewed with deep and reverential awe 
The spot where the Great Spirit made abode ; 
When storms obscured thee, and red lightnings glowed 
From the dark clouds oft gathered round thy face, 
He saw thy form in anger veiled, nor rowed 
His birchen bark, nor sought the wild deer chase, 
Till thy dark frown had passed, and sunshine filled its place. 

Oh ! that some bard would rise, true heir of glory. 
With the full power of heavenlj- poesy. 
To gather up each old romantic story 



HABB Y HIBBABD. 2 1 7 

That lingers round these scenes in memor}', 
And consecrate to immortality ; 
Some western Scott, within whose bosom thrills 
That lire which burneth to eternit}-, 
To pour his spirit o'er tliese miglity hills, 
And make them classic ground, thrice hallowed by his spells. 

But backward turn — the wondrous shape hath gone ! 
The round hill towers before thee, smoothl}' green ; 
Pass but a few short paces fartlier on. 
Naught but the ragged luountain side is seen. 
Thus oft do earthly things delude, I ween. 
That in prospective glitter bright and fair. 
While time or space or labor intervene. 
Approach them, every charm dissolves to air, 
Eacli gorgeous hue hath fled, and all is rude and bare. 

And trace jox\ streamlet down the expanding gorge, 
To the famed Basin close beside the way. 
Scooped from the rock b}' its imprisoned surge, 
For ages whirling in its foamy spra}', 
Which, issuing hence, shoots gladly into day, 
Till the broad Merrimack it proudly flows, 
And into ocean pours a rival sea, 
Gladdening fair meadows as it onward goes, 
Where, mid the trees, rich towns their heavenward spires dis- 
close. 

And farther down, from Garnsey's lone abode, 
By a rude footpath climb the mountain side. 
Leaving below^ the traveller's winding road. 
To where the cleft hill 3-awns al)rupt and wide, 
As though some earthquake did its mass divide 
In olden time ; there view the rocky Flume, 
'Jiremendous chasm ! rising side by side. 
The rocks abrupt wall in the long, high room, 
Pk'hoing the wild stream's roar, and dark with vapor}' gloom. 

But long, too long, Fve dwelt as in a dream, 
Amid these scenes of high sublimity : 
Another pen must eternize the theme 
Mine has essayed, though all unworthily. 
Franconia ! thy wild hills are dear to me, 
Would their green woods might be my spirit's home ; 
Oft o'er the stormy Avaste of memory 
Shall 1 look 1)ack where'er I chance to roam. 
And see their shining peaks rise o'er its angry foam. 



218 POETS OF NEW HAMP8HIBE. 

^i)omas Itvusi^ell OTtoistB. 

Thomas E. Crosby was born in Gilmanton, October 22, 181G. In 1811 he was prrad- 
nated from both the Academical and Medical Departments of Dartmouth College. 
He was professor in Norwich Uuivei-sity from 1854 to 18f>4; in Milwaukee Medical 
College from 18G4 to 1871 ; in New Hampshire Agricultural College in 1870, until his 
death, at Hanover, March 1, 1872. 



TO THE MERRIMAC EIVER, 

At the Falls of the Am-auh-nour-skeag. 

Roll on, bright stream ! 
And ever thus, from earliest time, thou'st leaped 
And played amid these caverned, sounding rocks, 
When the long summer's sun hath tamed thy power 
To gentleness ; or, roused from thy long sleep, 
Hast cast th}' wintry fetters off, and swept, 
In wild, tumultuous rage, along thy course, 
Flinging the white foam high from out thy path, 
And shaking to their very centre earth's 
Foundation stones. And, in thine awful might, 
When terror rides th}- wildly -heaving wave, 
Or in thy soft and gentle flow, when break 
The ripples on thy sandy shore, in sweet, 
Delicious music, as of fairy bells, 
How beautiful ai-t thou ! And since that first 
Glad hour, when morning stars together sang. 
Each rising sun, with dewy eye, hath looked 
On thee. Each full-orbed moon hath smiled to see 
Herself thrown back in pencilled loveliness. 
Mirrored a mimic disk of light, beneath 
Thy pure and limpid wave, or broken else 
Into a myriad crystal gems, flung high. 
In sparkling jets or gilded spray, towards heaven. 
And long ere on thy shores the white man trod, , 
And wove the magic chain of human will 
Around th}' free and graceful flood, and tamed 
Its power to minister to human good. 
The Indian roamed along thy wooded banks, 
And listened to thy mighty voice with awe. 
He, too, untutored in the schoolman's lore, 
And conversant with nature's works alone, 
More deep, true, reverent worship paid to thee 
Than does his fellow- man who boasts a faith 
More pure, an aim more high, a nobler hope — - 
Yet, in his soul, is filled with earth-born lusts. 
The Indian loved thee as a gift divine. 



THOMAS BUS SELL CB08BY. 219 

To him thou flow'dst from the blest land that smiled 

Behind the sunset hills — the Indian heaven, 

Where, on bright plains, eternal sunlight fell, 

And bathed in gold the hills, and dells, and woods, 

Of the blest hunting-grounds. AVithjo}- he drew 

The finn\' stores from out th}- swarming depths, 

Or floated o'er thee in his light canoe, 

And blessed the kindl}' hand that gave him thee, 

A never-failing good, a fount of life 

And blessing to his race. And thou to him 

Didst image forth the crystal stream that flows 

From "out the throne of God, and of the Lamb," 

The Christian's "water of the life divine." 

Thy souTce was in the spirit-peopled clouds. 

And to his untaught fanc}' thou didst spring 

Fresh from Manitou's hands — the o'erflowing hand 

From which all blessing comes, alike to him 

Whose teaching comes from rude, material things. 

Who worships neath the clear blue dome of heaven, 

As him who in a sculptured temple pra.ys. 

And thou, bright river in thy ceaseless flow, 

Ilast mirrored many a passing scene would charm 

The painter's e^'e, would fire the poet's soul ; 

For beauty of the wild, free wood and floods 

Is yet more beautiful when far removed 

From the loud din of toil, that e'er attends 

The civilizing march of Saxon blood. 

And poetry, unversed indeed, and rude. 

But full of soul-wrought, thrilling harmony, 

Hath spoken in th}' murmur or thy roar ; 

And human hearts, through long, swift-gliding A'ears, 

Have made the valley thou hast blessed their home, 

Where they have lived, and loved, and joyed, and hoped, 

Nay, passed through all that makes the sum of life, 

Of human life, in every clime and age. 

Along th}- shaded banks, in grim array, 

AV'ild bands of "braves," as fearless and as true 

As ever sought a deadly foeman's blade, 

Or battled nolily in a country's cause. 

With step as silent as the grave, have sped. 

In lengthened files, to strife, and blood, and death. 

In that sweet dell, where giant trees o'erhang 

Thy soft, encircling wave, the council-fires 

Have blazed. There silent, stern, grave-visaged men 

Have sat the magic circle round and smoked 

The calumet of peace ; or youths, in wild 



220 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

Exciting dance, with battle songs and shouts, 

With flashing arms, and well-feigned, earnest strife, 

Have acted the sad mimicry of war. 

To 3'onder sheltered nook, where, still and calm, 

The chafed and wearied waters rest awhile 

Behind a rocky point, on which the waves 

Break ever, with a music soft and sweet. 

And neath the shadows of tall, sighing pines, 

That, in the fiercest noon, create a soft. 

Cool, cloistered light upon the sward beneath. 

The dusky brave, fierce now no more, hath stolen 

Oft at the twilight hour, and when the 3'oung 

New moon hath tipped, with silver, bough, aijd rock. 

And wave, to murmur into willing ears 

Love's witching story, told full oft, yet new 

As when 'twas whispered in fair Eden's bowers. 

Sweet Merrimac ! For ages thus the stream 

Of human life ran on with thine, yet not 

As thine ; for thou art as thou wast of old, 

When first the Indian chased along thy banks. 

But where is now the red man, true and brave? 

Alas! where once the child of nature trod. 

Unquestioned monarch of the land and wave, 

Tlie man3'-towered, busy city stands ! 

Hills that tln-ew back the war-whoop's fearful peal. 

When filled was this fair vale with sounds of strife, 

Now echo to the engine's shriller scream. 

As swift and strong it flies, with goodly freight 

Of life and merchandise ! By thy fair stream 

The red man roams no more. No more he snares 

The artful trout, or lordly salmon spears ; 

No more his swift-winged arrow strikes the deer. 

Toward the setting sun, with faltering limb 

And glaring e3'e, he seeks a distant home, 

Where withering foot of white man ne'er can come. 

And thy wild water, Merrimac, is tamed, 

And bound in servile chains which mind has forged 

To bind the stubborn earth, the free-winged air, 

Tlie heaving ocean, and the rushing stream, 

Th' obedient servants of a mightier will. 

E'en as a spirit caught in earth-born toils, 

As legends tell, and doomed to slave for him 

Who holds the strong, mysterious bond of power. 

And thou art now the wild, free stream no more, 

Playing all idly in thy channels old ; 

Thy days of sportive beauty and romance 



HORATIO HALE. 221 



Are gone. Yet, harnessed to thy dai!}' toil, 
And all tb}' powers controlled by giant mind, 
And right directed, thou'rt a spirit still, 
And workest mightily for human good, 
Changing, in thine abundant alchem}', 
All baser things to gold. 



Horatio Hale, the son of Mrs. Sarah J. Hale, was born in Newport, May 3, 1817. 
He graihiated at Ilarvaril College in 18:57. He accompanied the IT. S. Exploring 
Expedition niiiU'r ('apt. Wilkes, as philologist, and on'his return the result of his 
exploratiims was pnlilished iu the seventh volume of Expedition Keport, entitled, 
"Ethnology and Philology," a work of great labor and research. Mr. Hale resides 
at Clinton, Province of Ontario. 



THE EAGLE'S SPEECH. 

An eagle came from his eyrie down, 
On the loftiest peak of Monadnoc's crown ; 
The flash of his dark e^'e was terribh* bright, 
As the marsh fire's gleam in the dead of night ; 
And the war-darts shook in his red right claw, 
But the bough of peace in his left I saw. 

Then slowlj- he opened his ivory beak. 
And he stood like a senator read}- to speak ; 
And the forests shook, and the winds grew still, 
And hushed was the voice of the noisy rill ; 
And the raven cowered in his hollow oak, 
As well he might when the eagle spoke. 

I am the monarch of air, said he ; 

Proudh' I soar over land and sea ; 

And I feel the breezes around me sing 

To the hurricane sweep of my mighty wing ; 

And my flight is chainless, and fearless, and free. 

For I am the bright bird of Liberty ! 

I marshal the course of the free and the brave. 
Upward and onward, o'er mountain and wave ; 
I lead them to glory, I beckon them on. 
And I join in llie din till the battle is -won ; 
And the dim eye will gladden my shadow to see, 
For I am the bright bird of Liberty ! 

In the days of old, with the freemen of Rome, 
"With Brutus and Cato 1 made me a home ; 
And my wing was before them unwearied and fleet, 
Till the princes of earth were all low at their feet, 



222 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

And the Roman was master bj- land and by sea, 
For he followed the bright bird of Liberty ! 

But luxur}' came, like the simoom's hot breath, 

And tlie flowers were all withered in valor's green wreath. 

And virtue was trampled and hustled aside 

B}' the pageant of guilt and the purple of pride ; 

But fetters, though gilded, are hateful to me, 

So I fled to the mountains for Liberty ! 

Then ages went b}^ till Museovia's czar, 

In hatred determined my glory to mar ; 

So he seized me, and chained me, and struck ofi" my head. 

But courteously gave me two others instead ; 

My own noble beaut}^ he never could see. 

For most loathsome to despots is Liberty ! 

But tj'ranny's chains are too feeble to bind. 
When the will is unfettered, unbroken the mind ; 
So I made my adieus, with a very bad grace. 
And 1 threw m}^ superfluous head in his face ; 
And southward I sped, over forest and sea. 
To France, the bright region of Liberty ! 

Oh, this was my season of triumph and pride, 
On the smoke-wreath of battle 'twas glory to ride, 
Till kingdoms were shattered, and despots o'erthrown, 
And the hero of destiny called me his own ; 
Of the masters of earth none so might}' as he, 
For they loved not the bright bird of Liberty ! 

But the warrior was dazzled by glory's red ray, 
And forgot the mild lustre of freedom's new day, 
Till pontiff and tyrant arose from the shock, 
And the hero was chained on the far ocean-rock, 
And the slaves who forsook him bent lowly the knee 
To the tyrants who trample on Libert}' ! 

So I parted in scorn from the land of the slave, 
And 1 found me an eyrie beyond the broad wave : 
With Columbia's children I made me a home ; 
And wider than Russia, and greater than Rome, 
And prouder than Gaul shall their fatherland be. 
If they cherish the bright bird of Libert}' ! 



LINES FOR MY COUSIN'S ALBUM. 

Nay, ask me not how long it be 

Since love's sweet witchery on me stole : 



BENJAMIN D. LAIGHTON. 223 

In truth it alwa3-s seemed to me 

A portion of m}' very soul ; 
I know the springs, where love was nursed, 
But ask not when it blossomed first. 

'Twas not beneath the cloudless skies 
Of youth's sweet summer ; long before, 

The sunshine of those gentle e3-es 
Had waked the tender flower. 

And from its breathing censer cup 

Had drawn its purest incense up. 

'Twas not in childhood's merry Ma}', 

When dews were fresh and skies were fair, 

And liie was one long sunn}^ daj', 
Undimmed b}' thought or care ; 

Oh no ! the stream wlience love is fed 

Is deepest at the fountain-head. 

And feeling's purest, holiest flowers 

Are brightest in life's earliest dawn. 
But fade when come the sultry hours 

Of noontide splendor on. 
The heart's fine music sweetest rings 
Ere manhood's tears have dulled the strings. 

I think my being and mj- love. 

Like oak and vine together sprung, 
And bough and tendril interwove. 

And round my heart-strings clung ; 
Oh ! never, till life's latest sigh. 
Shall aught unclasp the gentle tie. 



Ucnjamiu 13, Haigijton. 

Benjamin 1). Laijjliton, a In-other of Albert Laij^fhton, was born in Portsmouth in 
1817. For about twenty-live years he earried on the I'aruiiug business iu Stratham. 
He died iu his ualive city iu 1873. 



LINES WRITTEN IN MAY. 

Awake, m}' Muse ! no longer sleep ! 

Once more thv sweetest numbers bring ; 
The earth a second eden shows : 

Awake, and sing the charms of Spring ! 

The orchards redolent of bloom, 
The singing birds, the balmy air, 



•224 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIEE. 

The bright green fields, the warbling brooks,- 
To me, all seem divinely fair ! 

No clouds in 3'on o'er arching sky 
To hide the sun's enlivening rays ; 

No wintry winds to chill my frame, 
And interrupt my song of praise. 

Once more upon my wan, worn cheek, 
I feel the soft ambrosial breeze. 

And list the aerial harmony 

Tiiat floats amid the blossomed trees. 

Reclined upon some grass}' steep 
That overlooks the billowy sea, 

I love to watch the dark-blue waves. 
And hear their deep-toned melod}-. 

When on the earth night's shadows fall, 
Above I gaze with wondering eyes ; 

On Fancy's wing delighted soar, 

To pierce the mysteries of the skies, 

Still on, above the rolling spheres, 

To where resides the omniscient God, — 

The starry realm below is but 
The jewelled floor of his abode ! 

Oh ! then in awe and rapture whelmed, 
I seek, within that radiant sphere. 

Those friends so fondly loved on earth, 
Whose graves received affection's tear. 

My harp ! with th}' sweet harmonies 

There comes a low and dirge-like strain. 

That falls upon my listening ear 
Like murmur of the distant main. 

It ma}' no more be mine, my harp ! 

To wake thy sootliing melod}' : 
Perchance, when Spring shall come again. 

Silence and dust may on me lie. 

Be mine the blissful hope that points, 
Beyond the drear and shadowy tomb. 

To that fair clime where the freed soul 
Shall flourish in immortal bloom ! 



SAMUEL C. BALDWIN. 225 



STANZAS. 

When the last straggle's o'er, The sun shall rise and set ; 

And life this frame bath fled ; Its shores the ocean lave ; 
When I shall live no more, The grass with dews be wet, 

But lie in my last bed ; That grows above my grave. 

Shall I for ever sleep. The years will come and go, 

A senseless mass of clay. The past be acted o'er ; 

No more on earth to greet And yet my sleep below 
The light of opening day ? — Will be disturbed no more. 

The fingers of decay Bright star of faith, arise ! 

Deep-buried in my breast, And guide me to the way 

Must waste my flesh away That leads beyond the skies, 

AVhile I unconscious rest. To the unclouded day ! 



Samuel (t, iSaltrtoin. 

Samuel C. Baldwin was born in Newport, Sept. 15, 1817. At an earlj- age he 
learned the trade of a printer. For a few years he published, with his brother 
Henry E., the Aratis and Spectator. Subsequently he went to Lowell, Mass., and 
published the Advertiser. In 1844 he removed to Plymouth in that state and was 
publisher of the Ph/mouth Hock. Afterwards he removed to Meredith and became 
proprietor of the Neiv Hampshire Democrat. He died in that town Dec. 3, 1861. 



THE VOICES OF OCEAN. 

Eternal sea ! thy solemn voice has spoken 

To human listeners since time began ; 
Since the dark silence of old Night was broken, 

And, mid angelic songs, was born the Infant Man. 

And thou art chanting still thj' ceaseless anthem. 
With which thou hushed the ancient world to sleep ; 

Thy varied note to human hearts responsive, 
Mournful or glad, thou vast, mysterious deep. 

Th}' out-stretched arms the mariner encircle. 
Now, as when first the T^-rian trusted thee ; 

Launched his rude bark upon thy unknown bosom — 
The "ancient mariner" of the tideless sea. 

Thou wert the same in days of classic story, 

When Persia's myriads sought the Hellenic strand ; 

And thou rehcarsest still the Athenian's gloiy, 
The fame of Sparta, martial, cold, and grand ! 

Thy voice inspired the hardy Roman legion. 

Before whose conquering march a world might flee ; 



226 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

The Roman sceptre swayed a world-dominion, 
His tireless eagles onlj' paused by thee. 

When, as a spirit tries the unknown future. 

O'er th}' wide waste the great discoverer passed- 

His the true genius, great high priest to nature, 
Who gave to man the western world at last — 

Did not thy voice, from eastern shores resounding, 
To western climes the paean note prolong? 

And Indian cave and rocky cliff surrounding. 
Re-echo back again old Ocean's song? 

Thus hast thou ever spoke, as now thou speakest. 
In voices eloquent and most sublime, 

Thou, ever-changing, and yet ever changeless, 
Thou emblem of eternity, in time. 

Would he but listen to thine admonition. 

Unresting man, oh ! he might learn of thee — 

Seen through all time, in limitless duration — 
The changeless purposes of Deity. 



James T. Fields was born in Portsmouth in 1817. While yet a child he lost his 
father, a sea-captain. He became a clerk in a Boston bookstore, though he had 
been fitted for college and his tastes were literary. Successful as a publisher, he 
withdrew from business in 1863, and attained a high popularity as a lecturer. In 
his few poems he shows a delicate fancy and a fine lyrical vein. Since his death, 
in 188U, a volume of his poetry, "Ballads and other verses," has been published. 
He was also tlie anther of "Yesterdays With Authors," "Underbrush," and, with 
K. V. Whipple, edited "The Family Library of British Poetry." 



THE OWL-CRITIC. 

" Who stuffed that white owl? " No one spoke in the shop : 

The barber was busy, and he could'nt stop ; 

The customers, waiting their turns, were all reading 

The " Daily," the " Herald," the " Post," little heeding 

The young man who blurted out such a blunt question ; 

Not one raised a head, or even made a suggestion ; 

And the barber kept on shaving. 

"Don't you see, Mr. Brown," 

Cried the youth, with a frown, 

" How wrong the whole thing is, 

How preposterous each wing is, 

How flattened the head is, how jammed down the neck is — 

In short, the whole owl, what an ignorant wreck 'tis ! 



JAMES T. FIELDS. 227 

1 make no apology ; 

I've learned owl-eology. 

I've passed da} s and nights in a hundred collections, 

And cannot be blinded to an}- deflections 

Arising from unskilful fingers that fail 

To stuff a bird rigiit, from his beak to his tail. 

IMister Brown ! Mister Brown ! 

Do take that bird down, 

Or yoivU soon be the laughing-stock all over town ! " 

And the barber kept on shaving. 

" I've studied owls, Ever had his bill canted, 

And other night fowls. Ever had his neck screwed 

And 1 tell you Into that attitude. 

What I know to be true ; He can't do it, because 

An owl cannot roost 'Tis against all bird-laws. 

"With his limbs so unloosed ; Anatomy teaches. 

No owl in this world Ornithology preaches 

Ever had his claws curled. An owl has a toe 

Ever had his legs slanted. That can't turn out so ! 

I've made the white owl m}' stud}' for j-ears. 
And to see such a job almost moves me to tears ! 

Mister Brown, I'm amazed As to put up a bird 

You should be so gone crazed In that posture aJbsurd ! 

To look at that owl really brings on a dizziness ; 

The man who stuffed him don't half know his business ! " 

And the barber kept on shaving. 

" Examine those eyes. They'd make Audubon scream, 

I'm filled with surprise And John Burrows laugh 

Taxidermists should pass To encounter such chalf. 

Off on you such poor glass ; Do take that bird down ; 
So unnatural they seem Have him stuffed again, Brown .'" 

And the barber kept on shaving. 

"With some sawdust and bark I could make an old hat 
1 could stuff in the dark Look more like an owl 

An owl better than that. Than that horrid fowl, 

Stuck up there so stiff like a side of coarse leather. 
In fact, about hiin there's not one natural feather." 

Just then, with a wink aud a sly normal lurch, 
'i'he owl, very gravely, got down from his perch. 
Walked round, and regarded his fault-linding critic 
(Who thought he was stufted) with a glance analytic, 
And then fairly hooted, as if he should say : 



228 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

" Your learning's at fault this time, any way ; 

Don't waste it again on a live bird, I pray. 

I'm an owl ; you're another. Sir Critic, good day !" 

And the barber kept on shaving. 



THE SEARCH. 

"Give me the girl whose lips disclose, 
Whene'er she speaks, rare pearls in rows. 
And yet whose words more genuine are 
Than pearls or any shining star. 

Give me those silvery tones that seem 
An angel's singing in a dream, — 
A presence beautiful to view, 
A seraph's, j^et a woman's too. 

Give rae that one whose temperate mind 
Is always toward the good inclined. 
Whose deeds spring from her soul unsought, - 
Twin-born of grace and artless thought ; 

Give me that spirit, — seek for her 

To be my constant minister ! " 

Dear friend, — I heed your earnest prayers,— 

I'll call your lovely wife down-stairs. 



BALLAD OF THE TEMPEST. 

We were crowded in the cabin. 
Not a soul would dare to sleep, — 

It was midnight on the waters, 
And a storm was on the deep. 

'Tis a fearful thing in winter 
To be shattered in the blast. 

And to hear the rattling trumpet 
Thunder, " Cut away the mast ! " 

So we shuddered there in silence, — 
For the stoutest held his breath. 

While the hungry sea was roaring, 
And the breakers talked with Death. 

As thus we sat in darkness, 

Each one busy in his praj^ers, — 

" We are lost ! " the captain shouted. 
As he staggered down the stairs. 



JAMES T. FIELDS. 229 



But his little daughter whispered 
As she took his ic}' hand, 

" Is not God upon the ocean, 
Just the same as on the land ? " 

Then we kissed the little maiden. 
And we spoke in better cheer ; 

And we anchored safe in harbor 
When the morn was shining clear. 



THE LOVER'S PERIL. 

Have I been ever wrecked at sea, 

And nigh to being drowned ? 
More threatfiing storms have compassed me 

Than on the deep are found ! 

What coral-i-eefs her dangerous lips ! — 

My bark was almost gone — 
Hope plunged away in dim eclipse, 

And black the night rolled on. 

What seas are like her whelming hair, 
That swept me o'er and o'er ? — 

I heard the waters of despair 

Crash round the frightened shore ! 

" Come, Death!" I murmured in my cries, - 
For signals none were waved, — 

When both lighthouses in her e3'es 
Shone forth, and I was saved ! 



A PROTEST. 

Go, sophist ! dare not to despoil 
My life of what it sorely needs 

In days of pain, in hours of toil, — 
The bread on which my spirit feeds. 

You see no light beyond the stars. 
No hope of lasting joys to come? 

I feel, thank God, no narrow bars 
Between me and my final home ! 

Hence with your cold sepulchral bans, — 
The vassal doubts Unlaith has given ! 

My childhood's heart within the man's 
Still whispers to me, " Trust in Heaven ! 



230 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

MORNING AND EVENING BY THE SEA. 

At dawn the fleet stretched miles away 

On ocean plains asleep, — 
Trim vessels waiting for the day 

To move across the deep. 
So still the sails they seemed to be 
White lilies growing in the sea. 

When evening touched the cape's low rim, 
And dark fell on the waves, 

We only saw processions dim 
Of clouds from shadowy caves ; 

These were the ghosts of buried ships 

Gone down in one brief hour's eclipse ! 



AGASSIZ. 

Once in the leaf}' prime of Spring, 
When blossoms whitened every thorn, 

I wandered through the Vale of Orbe 
Where Agassiz was born. 

The birds in bojhood he had known 
Went flitting through the air of May, 

And happy songs he loved to hear 
Made all the landscape gay. 

I saw the streamlet from the hills 

Run laughing through the valleys green. 

And, as I watched it run, I said, 
' ' This his dear eyes have seen ! " 

Far clifl's of ice his feet have climbed 
That day outspoke of him to me ; 

The avalanches seemed to sound 
The name of Agassiz ! 

And, standing on the mountain crag 
Where loosened waters rush and foam, 

I felt that, though on Cambridge side, 
He made that spot my home. 

And, looking round me as I mused, 
I knew no pang of fear, or care, 

Or homesick weariness, because 
Once Agassiz stood there ! 



SAMUEL TENNEY HILDRETH. 231 

I walked beneath no alien skies, 

No foreign heights I came to tread, 
For everywhere I looked, I saw 

His grand, beloved head. 

His smile was stamped on every tree. 

The glacier shone to gild his name, 
And every image in the lake 

Reflected back his fame. 

Great keeper of the magic keys 

That conld unlock the guarded gates 

Where Science like a Monarch stands, 
And sacred Knowledge waits, — 

Thine ashes rest on Auburn's banks, 

Thy memory all the world contains, 
For thou couldst bind in human love 

All hearts in golden chains ! 

Thine was the heaven-born spell that sets 
Our warm and deep affections free, — 

Who knew thee best must love thee best, 
And longest mourn for thee ! 



Samuel ^twm^ l^iltJtcti). 

This poet was born in Exeter, November 17, 1817. He died in Cambridge, Mass., 
February 11, 1839. At the time of his death he was teacher ol elocution in Harvard 
College. 



FAME AND LOVE. 

Once while in slumbers wrapt I dreamt of Fame, 
And saw my native cliffs with garlands bound, 
And heard the vales with lofty echoes sound, 

Calling with thousand tongues upon my name. 

But when I wandered forth among the crowd. 
To seize with eager hand the laurel twine. 
To claim the envied, glorious prize as mine. 

And drink with longing ear those praises loud, 

Methought 1 felt strange loneliness of soul, 
An icy desolation at my heart, 
A sense of gloominess that would not part, 

A tide of anguish, that with blackened roll 

Swept heavily along my saddened breast ; 

I found myself accursed when thinking to be blest. 



232 F0ET8 OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 



Joy ! joy ! those dreams were changed : I slept again, 
To see a peaceful cot with vines o'ergrown, 
Around whose door a thousand flowers were strown, 

While merry warblers tuned a careless strain, 

From a young grove that waved its branches near, 
And woman's voice, soft as the breath of eve, 
When summer winds their twilight dances weave, 

With gentlest murmur stole upon mine ear ! 

I blessed that holy spot — those welcome notes, 
The natural music of a well-known voice. 
Whose tones now make my eager pulse rejoice. 

As from the past a transient echo floats. 

Here mutual love in peace and silence dwelt 

And every morn and night before the altar knelt. 



.Joseph W. Parmelee is a native of Newport, and was born Feb. 2, 1818. His 
ancestors were among the earliest English emigrants to this country. His paternal 
grand parents were of the first settlers of Newport. His parents—John and Phebe 
(Chase) Parmelee were resident at a locality on the South branch of Sugar river, 
known as Southville. He was a scholar in old school disti-ict No. 1. under several 
instructors, and in 1833-4 at the Newport Academy, under the tuition of the late 
David Crosby of Nashua. After about a year at Kimball Union Academy his school 
days terminated, and he turned his attention to mercantile pursuits. In 1847 lie went 
to Charleston, S. C., to fill an engagment with a substantial concern into which he 
was afterward admitted as a co-partner. He has since that time, until 1879, beeu 
identified with the Southern trade, first in Charleston, and later in N. Y. city. 
During a varied business career he has found much time for reading and self-cul- 
ture: has been a frequent contributor to the press, and lias written occasional 
poems of much interest and merit. Mr. Parmelee now resides in his native town, 
where the family liave for many years had a homestead. He is much interested 
in educational matters and Is President of the Board of Education for Union 
•School District, and Superintending committee of the town. 



ODE TO THE SOUTH BRANCH OF SUGAR RIVER. 

Imp of the ages and the wilds ! 

Adown the shadowy stream of time, 
By castles such as Fancy builds. 

On airy heights o'er woods sublime, 
Dashing and free ! 

Thy springs are where the sunlight gleams, 

At early morn above the shades. 
And where his gorgeous, setting beams 

Long linger ere their gloiy fades 
As day declines ! 

We trace thee to the sj'lvan shades. 
Where mossy fountains overflow, 



JOSEPH WABBEN PABMELEE. 233 



And sparWe down in bright cascades 
Through dark ravines to vales below 
Serenely fair ! 

The sunny glade and darksome glen, 
That mark thy rugged, tortuous way, 

Were once the haunts of savage men, 
And birds of night, and beasts of prey, 
In contest wild ! 

The hand of culture came at length, 
And won these valleys to the plow. 

These waters in their idle strength 
Were taught in channels new to flow. 
And turn the mill ! 

We roamed thy meadows fair and wide 
We frolick'd on thy rocky brim, 

We angled in thj- eddying tide, 

In thy deep pools we learned to swim, 
In youthful days ! 

Would that thj' waters and my lay 
Might flow in symphony, and bear 

To those in after times that straj- 
Along th}' rocks and margins fair 
A sweet refrain ! 



STANZAS 

Read at the Birth Day Celebration of an aged Minister of the Gospel. 

In youthful prime he heard the Master's voice : — 
"•Go preacli my gospel !" Forth with joy he went, 

Not as the Helot goes who has no choice, 
But choosing to be called and blest and sent 

As were the flrst disciples of our Lord, 

Who bore th' evangel of his precious word. 

In the broad, whitening harvest fields of earth, 
At morning, noontide, and the eleventh hour. 

Through vales of plent}-, dreary scenes of dearth. 
Sometimes in weakness, sometimes filled witli power. 

Well has he wrought, this servant. Lord, of thine, 

To show thy wondrous love and power divine. 

And now, like Israel, leaning on his staff. 

Yet bearing lightly all these ninety years, 
We hail his presence here in our behalf. 



234 POETS OF NEW HAMP8HIBE. 

And celebrate liis natal day with pra3^er's 
Of thankfulness, and old tune songs of praise, 
Such as thy people heard in other days. 

Much more would they rejoice, long gone before, 
Whose feet he guided out of devious Ways, 

And now are waiting on that radiant shore, 

To greet tlieir pastor with a crown of praise ; — 

May they not mingle in this earthly scene, 

As ministering spirits, all unseen? 

A blameless life — a service good and true 

In his great Master's cause — an honored age — 

The full corn in the ear — in him we view ; 
The blessings promised on the inspired page 

Are surely his in length of days and peace, 

Crowned with -unending bliss when life shall cease. 



A SMOKING REVERIE. 

I smoke my honest, red clay pipe, 

While on its ample bowl, 
In close relation to my nose, 

There rests a glowing coal. 

My nose reflects the glowing coal, — 
The glowing coal the nose, — 

And both seem striving to attain 
The splendor of the rose. 

Beneath the coal the fragrant weed — 

Responsive to the draft — 
Results in gorgeous clouds of smoke 

That in the air I waft. 

The}'^ rise above my weary head 
In graceful wreaths and curves, 

As gentle as the influence 
That settles on my nerves. 

There's much philosophy involved 
In smoke, the doctors sa}-, — 

Such is its harmony with mind 
I'm in a cloud all day. 

With this one pipe came these few lines, 

Just written as you read. 
That ne'er had met j'our genial eyes 

But for this Indian weed. 



JAMES 0. ADAMS AND LUCY P. ADAMS. 23f) 



Sames (J^sgootr Etrams. 

James O.'AdaniP, a brother of Rev. E. E. Adams, was born in Concord, June, 5, 
1818. ■ In early life he learueil the trade of printer. He graduated at D.artmouth Col- 
lege in 1843. For nine years he was editor of the ^fancllester American, am\ was 
afterwards editor of the Mirror and A mcrii-an. He also for six years was editor of 
the Granite Farmer. The poem here given was published in Tlie Dartmouth, while 
be was at college. 



THE DYING ROSE'S LAMENT. 

Zephyrs, as ,ye wander by, 
Bringing sweets from other flowers, 
Breathe for nie a gentle sigh, 
When I leave the summer bowers. 

Once on j'our obedient wings, 
M}' fresh petals odors gave 
To a thousand scentless things. 
That will never seek my grave. 

Dews, that tremble on my leaves, 
When the morning ray appears ; 
If for me the garden grieves. 
Ye shall be its silvery tears. 

Wanderer of the gauzy wing, 
Nectar-sipping, roaming free. 
Rest thee now, and deign to sing 
One sweet requiem for me. 

Waters, as 3'e murmur low. 
Through the verdant, sunny vale ; 
Fairer flowers will bless your flow. 
When I'm withered quite, and pale. 

When another life is near, 

When the heaven and earth are new, 

Paradise shall reappear. 

And I be immortal too. 

Etirn ^3. icltram^. 

r.ucy P. Foster was born in IS'iI, and in 18."il Ijeennie tlie wife of James O. .\dam8 
of Manchester. She wrote when very young, and the poem here printed was com- 
posed at the age of fifteen years. She "died in ISai. 



THE SUNBEAM. 

A sunbeam stole to the dreary earth. 

With light on its aiiy wing, 
And it kissed the flowers in gleesome mirth, 

With the breath of early spring. 



236 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 



And on it passed, through the meadows green, 

Where the tin}- grass-blade sprang 
From tlie dark brown bosom of mother earth, 

And a song of spring it sang. 

It crept to the heart of the early flower, 

In whose eye a tear-drop lay, 
Where it whispered words of magic power. 

And it wept no more that day. 

On, on o'er the hills to the rivulet wild, 

That laughingl}^ flung its spray, 
The sunbeam flew ; and it gently smiled 

As it passed on its gladsome way. 

And the foam-beads looked, 'neath that sunn}' gaze, 
Like the gems of the mountain mine ; 

But the ray had sped on its lightsome wing 
To the forest of waving pine. 

And a dirge-like song from the forest came, 

Of voices wild and free. 
And the song they sung was ever the same, 

Of strange, deep melody. 

And the sunbeam kissed, in childhke play. 

The crest of the trees sublime, 
And the castled rock, so hoar and gray. 

That had seen the march of time. 

But a storm-cloud came athwart the sky. 

And the sunbeam was withdrawn. 
Yet it perished not — for the good ne'er die. 

But they wait for a brighter dawn. 



I^cnrictte V^xi l^atu jFrendj. 

Miss French was born In Chester, December 23, 1818, anct her death occurred In 
her native town, March 9, 1841. Her father was an eminent member of the bar, 
and his family of eleven children enjoyed good privileges for education and im- 
provement, and several of them have become well known in literature and other 
attainments. The few poems she has left promise much for her had her life been 
prolonged. 



THE FRIEND OF AN HOUR. 

There is truth in the love that has grown up with j-ears. 
Born in sorrow and sadness, and nourished with tears ; 
But give me the friendship of mirth's brilliant hour, 
And still let me laugh with the friend of an hour. 



HENRIETTE VAX MATU FRENCH. 237 

Dream not that in weeping more pleasure you find, 
O'er the friends you have loved in tlie ^-ears left behind ; 
Thej' were dear — they are dear, still defying Time's power ; 
But let me laugh on with the friend of an hour. 

The friends that I loved — they have dearer ones now, 
Or the damp earth rests heavily on their cold brow ; 
And my days would soon find me like Autumn's lone flower, 
Could I not gather bliss with the friend of an hour. 

There are some who still love, though their love is forgot. 
There are some who have loved me, whose love now is not; 
I will never regret them nor call back their power, 
But will cherish the true^ with the friend of an hour. 

O sadlj' my spirit within me is bowed, 

"VYhen I think of lost loved ones, the grave and the shroud ; 

And darkly the shade on m}' future would lower. 

But I weep o'er the dead with the friend of an hour. 



THE WORLD IS ALL BEAUTY. 

The world is all beauty ; the sun's rising light, 

But hides by its brightness the stars of the night. 

The bird's merr^' voices our listening ears greet 

But to call off our thoughts from the flowers at our feet. 

The world is all beauty ; the dim forest shade. 
The sparkling brook gurgling through deep wooded glade. 
Ragged rock, and wild bramble, each leaf, flower and tree, 
E'en "the field of the sluggard" has beaut}' for me. 

There's a loftier beaut}' ; the mind, as it springs 
From the visible glories of earth, spreads its wings 
Over limitless regions of truth, bold and free — 
O'er a wide world of beauty the eye cannot see. 

The heart knows a beauty the mind cannot know, 
When it throws o'er the true, pure and loving its glow ; 
It giveth to knowledge its value and power — 
To the forest a spirit — a soul to the flower. 



SHORT THE TIME. 

Short the time since first we met 

Strangers in each thought and feeling, 

Now we sever, will regret 

Ever o'er our hearts come stealing? 



238 POETS OF NEW HAMP8HIBE. 

Time, the^y say, alone brings love ; 

Few the hours we've passed together ; 
But for us some friendly dove 

Stole from friendship's wing a feather. 

Few the hopes that we have shared. 
Few the fears, the joj's, the sorrows ; 

One sad tie our friendship's spared — 
From i\\e past it nothing borrows. 

Love the lovely — thus do I — 
From respect esteem it floweth ; 

You will never pass it by 

That it no more warmly gloweth. 



TWO MAIDENS. 



FIRST MAIDEN. 



The clouds, the clouds, how beautiful the clouds at set of sun, 
As all the splendors of all hours were gathered into one ! 



SECOND MAIDEN. 

And as thnt hour, in mockery, more splendid than they all. 
Had hung around the d^'ing day a gorgeous funeral pall. 

FIRST MAIDEN. 

I sa}'' not so — those clouds are but a smile the Day-God flings 
To tell us that the circling hours bring morn upon their wings. 
And when he sinks beneath the wave, he leaves the stars to say 
That lie but bears to other lands the blessings of the day. 
Those stars that lend, like him, to all their unreflected light, 
Antl planets shining steadily in borrowed beauty bright. 

SECOND MAIDEN. 

But O, the blushing Spring has fled, too beautiful to last ! 
Then, love, let us be sorrowful o'er glories that are past. 

FIRST MAIDEN. 

Wh}^ mourn 3'e for the bright springtime ? She fled in light away ; 
Her flowery footprints greet us still along our pathwaj' gaj'. 
The Autumn sun shines glorious afar o'er vale and hill ; 
And Autumn's forests lie in light magnificently still. 

SECOND MAIDEN. 

'Tis true we trace the steps of Spring 'neath Summer's leafy noon, 
Mid waving corn, and purple grapes, and 'neath the harvest moon ; 



JOHN EILET VAUXET. 239 

"We love the Autumn's forest leaf, and Autumn's low breeze sigh- 
But sadly, as a friend's last word, or the smile he wore in dying. 

FIRST MAIDEN. 

Oh think not, my beloved one, that thou alone canst hear 

The voice that dwells in leaf and breeze proclaim that winter's 

near. 
But winter is not joyless when the heart is tuned to mirth. 
Though ice chains lock the mountain streams, and snow en- 
tombs the earth. 

SECOND MAIDEN.^ 

Will nothing make thee mournful? Th}* 3'outh is waning fast ; 

The freshness of thy childhood is forever, ever past. 

Thy womanhood now cometh on with sorrow and with care. 

And soon old age will dim thine eye, and blanch thine auburn hair ; 

Tlie dark grave flingeth open wide its portals unto thee ; 

1 know that thou art weeping now, beloved one, with me. 

FIRST MAIDEN. 

The future that thou dreadest, love, is kindly hid from me ; 
Darkness is there, but through the shade the light of J03' 1 see ; 
And o'er the tomb, though hidden from thy sorrow-clouded sight, 
There beams a star, the star of hope, illuming all its night. 



John R. Vamey, a native of this State, was born in 1819. He graduated at Dart- 
moutli Colleg'u inlSW ; taught in Franlilin Academy two years ; was clerli of the Court 
of StralTord County four years; professor of niathenuitics in Dartmouth College 
lti60-'(>;5 ; admitted to the bar in ISia and became a partner of John P. Hale. In 1808 
he became one of the editors and proprietors of the Dover Inquirer, weekly, and of- 
the Daily Jiepiihlirati. He ilie<l l)y accident >Iay •!, KSS-2. lie was inspecting the 
ruins of a burnt church building in Dover, when", liy the falling of a chimney, and 
Uie gableeud of the building, lie was bui'ied, and when taken up was found to 
be dead. • 



TO THE FIRE-FLY. 

Like to tlie gleaming thought, Briglit as the blissful dreams, 

That flits through fancy's eye ; AVhich gild our youthful days ; 

Like to the star that shot Or fleecy cloud, that gleams 
Across the eastern sky ; With Sol's last setting rays ; 

Or dazzling show, Thy sparkling light. 

That flits away AVhen darkness shades 

In one brief day. The everglades. 

Thy transient glow ; Illumes the night. 



240 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

I would th}'^ fires might be As bright a light as thine, 

Less fitful in their blaze, And far more constant too, 

That I might longer see That far away may shine 

Tlie golden wreath, that plays And speaks me good and true ; 
Tliy path around ; Whose beaming ray 

As o'er the lees Shall gladness make, 

And dusky trees, And joy awake, 

Thy way is found. Be mine, I pray. 

But yet thy glittering spark And. when this light hath shed 

Seems joyful to my eyes, Its rays for many years, 

As when in sorrow dark. And caused the heart that bled 
Some gleams of hope arise ; To smile amid its tears. 
Which quick dispel Then, Earth, adieu ! 

The hated gloom. Be mine to rise. 

And in its room Above the skies, 

Cause joy to dwell. And shine anew. 



WHAT IS BEAUTY. 

What beauty is, 0, who can say? 
Who paint the charms that softly play 

Around her brow ? her ray 
Who catch, as through the mind it gleams 
Its fairy light, and often seems 

To gild our airy dreams? 

The rainbow's hues that sudden wake, 
Midst weeping clouds, and, bending, slake 

Within the silvery lake 
Their seeming thirst ; the Aurora's rays, 
Upon whose quick and fitful blaze 

We oft with wonder gaze. 

The transient glories of the trees, • 
As when the frosts of autumn seize 

And tint with gold their leaves : 
The graceful, sweet and modest flower, 
That, hidden 'neath some lonely bower, 

In meekness blooms its hour ; 

The tender love and winning grace, 
That in a mother^s look we trace, 

Or in a sister's face ; 
And in the kindred tie that finds 
Congenial hearts and noble minds 

And them in friendship binds ; 



CIIABLES ANDERSON DANA. 241 

Or when a heart of budding years 
Some mournful tale of sorrow hears, 

And gentl}' drops its tears ; 
And when its joyous laugli is heard, 
As sweet as music of a bird. 

Or kindly spoken word. 

But when in opening bloom we find, 
'Neath brow that's fair, a gentle mind, 

A look that's ever kind, 
A sweet and graceful modesty, 
Combined with truth and purity, 

Then Beauty's self we see. 



(BijarlcgJ Eutrctison Sana. 

Charles A. Dana was born in Hinsdale, August 8, 1819. He passed two years at 
Harvard College, but left before graduating, on account of an affection of the eyes. 
Becoming a journalist he went to New York and was connected with the Tribune. 
lu ]863-'G4-6.3, he was Assistant Secretary of War. After leaving that post, he liought, 
with the aid of some associates, a daily journal of New York city and made it a 
great fluancial success. He was associated wltli George Ripley in editing the 
American CyclopiLMlia ; and in 1854, he edited "The Household Book of Poetry." 
His poetry was mostly written before his twenty-flftli year. He is a linguist, and 
can converse with his foreign guests in their own languages. 



VIA SACRA. 

Slowly along the crowded street I go. 

Marking with reverent look each passer's face, 

Seeking, and not in vain, in each to trace 

That primal soul whereof he is the show. 

For here still move, by many eyes unseen, 

The blessed gods that erst Olympus kept ; 

Through ever}- guise these lofty forms serene 

Declare the all-holding Life hath never slept ; 

But known each thrill that in man's heart hath been, 

And every tear that his sad eyes have wept : 

Alas for us ! the heavenl}' visitants, — 

We greet them still as most unwelcome guests. 

Answering their smile with hateful looks askance. 

Their sacred speech with foolish, bitter jests ; 

But oh ! what is it to imperial Jove 

That this poor world refuses all his love ! 



MANHOOD. 

Dear, noble soul, wisely thy lot thou bearest ; 
For, like a god toiling in earthly slavery. 
Fronting thy sad fate with a joyous bravery, 



242 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Each darker day a sunnier mien thou wearest. 

No grief can touch thy sweet and spiritual smile, 

No pain is keen enough that it has power 

Over th}' childlike love, that all the while 

Upon the cold earth builds its heavenly bower ; — 

And thus with thee bright angels make their dwelling, 

Bringing thee stores of strength when no man knoweth ; 

The ocean-stream, from God's heart ever swelling. 

That forth through each least thing in Nature goeth. 

In thee, oh, truest hero, deeper floweth ; — 

With joy I bathe, and many souls beside 

Feel a new life in the celestial tide. 



TO R. B. 

Beloved friend ! they say that thou art dead. 

Nor shall our asking ej'es behold thee more. 

Save in the company of the fair and dread. 

Along that radiant and immortal shore, 

Whither thy face was turned forever more. 

Thou wert a pilgrim toward the True and Real, 

Never forgetful of that infinite goal ; 

Salient, electrical, thy weariless soul,' 

To every faintest vision always leal. 

Even mid these phantoms made its world ideal. 

And so thou hast a most perennial fame, 

Though from the earth th}' name should perish quite 

When the dear sun sinks, golden, whence he came, 

The gloom, else cheerless, hath not lost his light ; 

So in our lives impulses born of thine, 

Like fireside stars across the night shall shine. 



Edward E. Sargeant was born in Hillsborough, June 17, 1820. At an early age 
he was a clerk in a store in Lowell, Mass., where he remained till his 17th year, 
when he became a student in Newbury Seminary, Vt., where he fltted for college 
and entered at Dartmouth, graduating from thence in 1S43. His whole college life 
was eminently manly, and assiduously devoted to its high purpose. After leaving 
college he went to Georgia and had charge of a Female Seminary in Putnam Co. 
AVhile there he studied law, and was admitted to the bar at Macon, Ga. He return- 
ed to New Hampshire in 1845, and the next year he went to Grand Rapids, Michi- 
gan. His business and fame as a lawyer rapidly increased. In 1853 he went to 
Europe andtvisited remarkable places InEuglantl, France, and throughout Europe 
and Asia-Minor. He returned after nearly a year's absence to his home in Grand 
Rapids. He died April 15, 1H58, of a cancerous tumor in his throat. With the calm- 
ness of a philosopher and the patient resignation of a Christian he met his final dis- 
»olution. 



EDWABD EBASMU8 SABGEANT. 248 

THE INDIAN MOTHER AND HER SON.* 

THE mother's appeal. 

Staj- ! Wilt tbou leave me now, — th}- mother ! her 

Whose wigwam notes once lulled thine infancy ! 

Dost thou remember how tliis breaking heart 

Yearned with excess of love, when first th}' hand, 

Bending th}' father's bow, gave lightning speed 

To the winged arrow, certain, bearing death, 

O'ertaking the dark bison, drinking up 

The strength of his firm limbs, turning the tide 

Of his hot-beating blood? O, then, with joy, 

Did hope reach lorth to distant moons, when thou 

Would'st be the champion of our dauntless tribe, 

The leader of our wars ; a chieftain sent 

By the Great Spirit down to make these woods. 

And streams, and crags, and lakes, proud scenes of deeds 

No arm in moons gone by has e'er achieved ! 

Thy father's image, as, from earth upsprung, 

He were a youth again, with e3'e of fire. 

And dark hair streaming on the breath of morn. 

And lip all trembling with a high resolve, — 

How have I gazed on thee, and wept and smiled ! 

Thou dost not know a mother's tender pride ! 

'Tis nature's gift, 'tis born within the sweep 

Of the dread whirlwind, by the wigwam's blaze, 

In the deep shade of tempest-driven woods, 

Where winter frowns on every living thing. 

And summer struggles to put on a smile ; — 

Yes here 'tis strong and noble, as ever filled 

A courtly heart beyond the floods. The love 

That pours these accents, sending tears adown 

These old and withered cheeks, immortal is ! 

But when this bosom, wlionce thy infant lips 

First drew the drop tiiat told thee I was thine, 

Which now I bare to win thee back again, 

When it shall meet, in the fair home beyond 

Tile hills, where the Great Spirit, cloud-enveloped, sits, 

♦ A young Indian, whose father was iload, lived witli his mother on the shores 
of the Pacifi(;, near the mouth of the Columbia river. Jle liad ollen l)een urged to 
visit Kilinhurgli, and was deliglited witli the idea of going, but the tears of his 
dear parent had prevented the accomplishment of his desire. At length a vessel 
again aiTlve<i from Scotland; the master repeated the request, and offered induce- 
ments, which the Indian could not resist. He iloternnned to leave liis native 
■woods, and cross the wide ocean. The time of his dep:irture came, the mother ap- 
jicared and bared her bosom ti> win back her son. He wt'i>t and hesitated, liut 
aoon turned away and stepped on board. He went to lidinburgh, received an 
excellcut education, and in a few years returned to Lis forest home. 



244 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

On that green, sunny isle, thy father's form, 

What shall be told of thee? O come, come back. 

Leave not thy mother in her tottering age, 

In this cokl wilderness alone to die, 

Thy voice would soothe the pains of cruel death. 

And charm the spirit on its way to heaven. 

O, shall the stranger from the mother steal 

The boon which Nature gave, — her offspring's love ! 

Then break, m}' heart-strings, — let mine eye be dim, 

And fly, my soul, since all it loves is fled. 

ANSVTER OF THE SON. 

M3' soul is relenting, how can I depart, 

When the voice of the mother that bore me, 

Strikes home like a spirit and conquers my heart, — 
For it brings the departed before me. 

O, shade from the ever-green isles of the west, 

On a pinion of light thou art hieing, 
Impelled by the power of a father's unrest, 

That his son from his kindred is flying. 

Yes, white man, that spirit commands me away, 

In the shadowy forest paths roaming. 
And along by the cliffs in the mist doth it stray, 

Where leaps the live cataract, foaming. 

Farewell ! To 3'our countr}' and kindred return, 

Where the dust of 3'Our fathers is sleeping ; 
For tears like a fire on m^' sad spirit burn, 

The tears that a mother is weeping. 

« 
But where is my courage : It never yet failed, 

When the eye-ball of fire was before me ; 
This heart at the tomahawk's edge never quailed. 

Nor when arrows of death whistled o'er me. 

I will go, though with pain, from the storm-beaten bowers, 
By snow-wreaths in winter moons crested. 

And where from the fervor of summer's brief hours 
Beneath the cool shadows I rested. 

Then back to thy paradise, shade of the dead ! 

In vain to this heart hast thou spoken ; 
It is not that the love of thy kindred has fled. 

But their spell o'er m}' spirit is broken. 



ALBEB T PEIili Y. 245 



Kev. Albert Pcrrywas l)orn in Kiii(l,i;c, December 17, 1S20. In youth lie wns much 
inclined to literary pursuits, and a volume of his poems was i)ublislied in 1S4(;. 
When about lliirty years of H}ic he became much interested in the truths of religion. 
He studied tlieofo.iry at Audover, Mass., and was settled over the First Congrcffa- 
tional church in Stou,t;hton, Mass. The few vears of thi.s, his only pastcirate, were 
tilled with happy, successful service, cheered by the most alb-cliiinate relations lie- 
tween pastor and jveople. lie retiretl from the ministry in l.sv;, fatally stricken with 
pulmonary consumption, and died at New Ipswich, June 17, 1S(J2. 

THE GRAND^ONADNOCK. 

Summer was out in all her greener^', 
And fragrant zephyrs o'er tlie landscape played, 
As through New Hampshire's rugged scenerj' 
I rambled ; trees were towering undeeayed, 
That cast on other centuries their shade ; 
Tall mountains stood around with solemn mien, 
The guardians of man}' a flowery glade. 
That slept in beaut}' and in joy between, 
Like maiden innocence, too bashful to be seen. 

There is a magic in those old gray rocks, 
Towering in mountain majesty on high ; 
For ages they have battled with the shocks. 
Of racking whirlwinds that have wandered by ; 
Changes that have deranged mortality. 
Are nought to them ; a brotherhood sublime. 
They hold a quiet converse with the sky, 
And stand, as when our world was in its prime, 
Unharmed as yet, by all the ravages of time. 

And thou Parnassus of my native clime, 
"What though we scarcely yet have seen thy name, 
Among the annals of hesperian rhyme? 
What if no oracle enhance thy fame, 
No fuming deity or prescient dame 
Erect a domicile and tripod near? 
Thou Grand IMonadnock, grandeur is the same, 
"Whether it shade the Delphian hemisphere. 
Or tower without a syl)il, or a poet here. 

I stood upon thy solitary height, 
"When erst romantic boyhood climbed the steep, 
And there outvigiled all the stars of night. 
Till morning gleamed along the watery deep. 
And woke a drowsy continent from sleep. 
I saw remotest Orient unfold 
His portals, and a world of splendor leap 
From the abyss where far Atlantic rolled, 
Mingling its billows with a firmament of gold. 



246 POETS OF NEW HA3IP8HIRE. 

Time rolls along with an oblivious tide, 
And soon will drown the voice of praise or blame ; 
The tallest monuments of human pride 
Crumble away like ant-hills — both the same ; 
How brief the echo of a sounding name, — 
The env}' and the glory of mankind ! 
And who shall heed the after-trump of fame, 
That fluctuates a season on the wind, 
Stirring the empty dust that he has left behind ? 

Farewell, thou rude but venerable form ! 
I go my wa}', perchance return no more ; 
I leave thee here to battle with the storm, 
And the inconstant winds that round thee roar ; 
I would not like thy cloudy summit soar ; 
Too man^^ blasts would howl around my head. 
Farewell ; contentment is my only store ; 
Along the humbler valley let me tread, 
Unenvied live, and sleep with the forgotten dead. 



Eeouartr S^ain. 

Rev. Leonard Swain was born in 1821. He was gratlnatetl at Dartmouth College 
in 1841, and at Andover Theological Seminary in 184(5. He became pastor of a Con- 
gregational church in Nashua in 1847, and was dismissed iu 1852 to become pastor 
of a church in Trovidence, R. I. He died in 1809. 



MAN IS NOT WHAT HE WILLS. 

Man is not what he wills ; the very sky 

Hath not a powerless cloud, but looketh down 

In meek compassion, as it floateth by. 
On us, boru subjects of a smile or frown. 

There's not an upstart, vagrant wind but drives 
His passive spirit on its lightest breath ; 

The unsinewed giant so no longer strives. 
Though o'er his maddened eye careers the shakened death. 

Man is not what he wills ; and O, 'tis joy 

That not a spell-clad spirit is his foe ; 
No bloodless wizard, patient to destroy, 

Binds on the fatal ring, the charm of woe ! 
For age, the magic circle when it breaks. 

Goes up with fleeing sj-mphonies on high ; 
And a wild thrill of ecstasy awakes. 
Above the grief that mourns his lost captivity. 



LEONARD SWAIN. 247 

Man is not what he wills ; for far above, 

And from beneath, the thwarting currents roll, 

And nature's might}' magazine of love 

Ten thousand times shall overcome his soul. 

And wheresoe'er his chosen path shall tend. 
His charmed footsteps keep but half the way ; 

A cloud, a sound, a very flower, shall send 
An overflowing flood, and bear him wide astra3\ 

Man is not what he wills ; hast thou not seen 
The stern, strong face unbrace itself again, 

When a soft breath went by, with thoughts between 
That never touched his iron soul till then? 

The harsh, determined visage, how it tells 
A sudden tale of years long past and gone ! 

The worldl}', rugged bosom, how it swells 
With quick o'ercoming tides, from Youth's far ocean drawn ! 

Man is not what he wills ; the simple child 
That, panting, hunts the dream}- butterfly, 

Doth pause at sudden, of his prey beguiled, 
A smitten victim of the western sky. 

When o'er the burning hills it takes the sun 
To that bright place of happiness and gold ; 

And, as he turns away, the lesson done. 
He goes, another child, by other thoughts controlled. 

Man is not what he wills ; the time hath been 

When he whose hand doth whet the midnight steel 

Hath bowed his head, all gray with age and sin, 
To hear the hamlet bell's sweet, distant peal. 

He had not cared to hear, but in his breast 

Were things of kindred with that human sound ; 

The answering memories break their long, long rest, 
And thought and tears are born, and penitence profound. 

Man is not what he wills ; uncounted powers 

Beset each single footstep of his way. 
And, like the guardian spirits of the flowers, 

Charm each malignant, poisonous breath away ; 
And so by guileless things is man beguiled. 

And sweetly chastened in his earthly will. 
While every thwarting leaves him more a child. 
With childlike sense of good, and childlike dread of ill. 

Man is not what he wills ; a deep amen 
O'ercomes the grateful spirit as it hears ; 



248 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

" Thy will, not mine, be done," it breathes again 

To him that sits above the circling j-ears. 
The weal< doth find supporters, and the blind 

A faith that will not ask an earthly eye, 
To see the goings of the eternal mind, 
When clouds and darkness bear his moving throne on high. 



Mrs. Foss was born in New Boston, October, 24, 18-21. Her father, Asa Bryant, 
belonged to the Bryant family of Bridgewater, Mass., of which the late William 
Cullen Bryant was another branch, they being cousins. She was educated at Dra- 
cutt Seminary, Dracutt, Mass., and completed a classical and English course of study. 
In 1848 she married George Foss, of Thoi-ntou. In 1859 Mr. Foss became proprietor 
of the well known Brook Farm and Summer Boarding House, near Camptou village. 



TO A SPINNING WHEEL. 

In ecstacy let others praise. 

The organ's loft}- peal ; 
To me there is no music like, 

The dear old spinning wheel. 

Its gentle buzzing greets my ear, 
With a soft, soothing sound ; 

Like the faint echoes of the woods. 
Where water-falls resound. 

How man}' memories of the past, 

Clustering around it cling ! 
And make it to my throbbing heart, 

A dear, time-honored thing. 

Our mother ere the household band, 
Had left the household hearth, 

Mingled the music of the wheel, 
With many an evening's mirth. 

And later, in her "green old age," 
She ruiip" '^ut many a chime ; 

Rising and tailing with each step, 
Her cap-border kept time. 

She taught us that our lives should be, 
A well drawn, even thread : 

Peace to her ashes ! for she sleeps, 
Now with the silent dead ! 

But soon the spinning wheel will pass ; 

Its music soon be o'er ; 
Oh ! who'll appreciate its worth, 

One generation more? 



DEB OB AH G. FOSS. 249 

ALL HALLOW EVE. 

My nntal month, O, glowing, bright October ! 

"When forests all, in gorgeous hues arra3ed, 
Contrast with pastures, russet brown and sober, 

"Where patient kine, lie drows}' in the shade. 

The flocks come down to feed upon the meadow ; 

The woods are jocund with harmonious sounds : 
Squirrels dart in and out among the shadows. 

To catch the falling nuts, with agile bounds. 

Oh ! regal montii, of beaut_v and of glory ! 

Tliy days are ended, in All Hallow Night : 
And on this eve, as I have read in story. 

Friends, long since passed to the abodes of light, 

Return again, to the familiar dwelling. 

That eclioed to their footsteps here below, 
And, with affection earthly' love excelling, 

Commune of things beyond our ken to know. 

Oh ! sainted mother ! art thou here this even? 

And is thy presence in this quiet room? 
Art thou to me a heavenly min'strant given, 

To cheer and comfort for the da3s to come? 

Then strengthen me in ever}' just endeavor, 
For my own good, or good of human kind ; 

Let light upon my patliwa}-, shine forever, 
Until at length, the heavenly' goal I find, 

A brother's love so pure, so strong, so holy ! 

He whom I loved, as sisters seldom do ! 
Can aught so high descend to aught so lowl}'? 

Sure love is deathless when the heart is true. 

Of all dear things to me this seems the dearest — 
A little child just prattling on my knee : 

"We had two such ; 3'et God who sees the clearest, 
Took them from us, with Him, for aye, to be. 

These may b.e here to-night, I am not certain. 
But this I know, that in these evening hours. 

The}- have seemed near, and very thin the curtain 
That parts their lives from this low life of ours. 

And if, sometimes, I am inclined to murmur. 
That clouds return after the morning rain, 

Let these sweet thoughts still in my memory linger, 
A radiant halo, on the cross of pain. 



250 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 



Simeon ^3. W^% 



Rev. S. P Heath was born in Monroe. Dec. 19, 1821. He was educated at New- 
bury Seminary, Vt., and studied theology at the Biblical Institute in Concord. He 
began to preach in 1850. Since then tlie ministry has been his life-work. 



EXTRACT 

From a poem read at the inauguration of the New Hampshire Orphans' Home 
and School of Industry, at the Webster Elm Farm, Franklin, October 19, 1871. 

In coming days, when Charity 

Shall wreathe the brow of Liberty, 

And gild the page of history ; 

The peaceful triumph wrought to-day, 

Will shine in honor's bright array : 

For He whose smile is true renown. 

Whose name is Love, our work will crown. 

And shall we cherish one dark fear, 

That our dear Home established here, 

Will fail, mid beauties rich and grand, 

So freely strown by God's own hand? 

As soon believe our granite hills. 

Our fertile vales and sparkling rills 

Will traitors turn, and no supplies 

Reward the toiler's sacrifice. 

When freemen met on Bunker's Hill, 

A grateful service to fulfil, 

They chose, to be their speaker, one 

Whose early home we stand upon. 

A dense crowd pressed upon the stand ; 

In vain the marshals gave command, 

"Move farther back !" The eager throng 

Behind swept forward ones along. 

Reluctantly the marshals yield, 

And let the crowd possess the field. 

"It can't be helped ;" they tamely say ; 

"The throng will mar our plans to-day." 

Then Webster's voice, so deep and loud. 

Rang out o'er that vast, surging crowd ; 

"Move back ! nothing's impossible 

To those who stand on Bunker Hill." 

That mighty voice the}' all obey ; 

That teeming mass of life gives way. 

To day we hear a mightier voice, 

Which bids our trusting hearts rejoice : 

"Nothing's impossible to you. 

Whose faith is strong, whose hearts are true ; 

Go forward in your work of love, 



SIMEON p. HEATH. 251 



You'll find your sure reward above." 

Tradition tells that lono^ and well, 

A sculptor wrought within his cell, 

A crypt, deep hidden under ground, 

Beyond the reach of human sound. 

A shadowy torch-light iilled the room, 

Yet on he toiled amid the gloom. 

Year after 3'ear. At last he saw 

The well-carved stone, without a flaw, 

Made read}- for its destined place, 

Some portion of a wall to grace. 

He brushed the chips from out his haii». 

While other hands bestowed their care. 

And took the cherished work of 3'ears 

Away from sight, as falling tears 

Evinced alike his hopes and fears ; 

And left the cell to And again 

His place among the ranks of men. 

Soon dawned for him th' auspicious day 

That all his labors should repay. 

The Temple with refulgent light. 

Rose proudly on his dazzled sight : 

And happy throngs of Israel's race 

Were gath'ring to the sacred place, 

To dedicate that structure rare, 

To Him who hears the orphan's prayer. 

The artist enters : soon his gaze 

Is riveted. In deep amaze, 

He views the stone his skilful hand 

And fertile brain so deftly planned, 

Placed in an archwaj' where it shone 

In grace and beauty all its own. 

His soul drinks in the rapt'rous sight ; 

His work is crowned with glor3''s light. 

Thus oft the toilers here below. 

Are working better than they know. 

Small, small indeed, their work appears. 

After the toil of wear}' years. 

They carve and polish day bj- day. 

Till God removes their work away ; 

And bids them lay their soiled robes b}', 

And rise to immortalit}'. 

O glad surpiise ! O glorious sight ! 

Their work revealed in heaven's clear light, 

Sparkles a pure and precious gem. 

In Jesu's royal diadem. 



252 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

O ! ye who found this Orphan's Home ! 
Your full reward is 3'el to come. 
Press on : eternal years will show 
How well you've done your work below ; 
You'll hear that voice of harmony, 
Whose echoes fill Eternity', 
Proclaiming, while the angel choir 
Shall swell their holy anthem higher ; 
"These little ones are saved through thee ; 
Fear not ! ye did it unto me." 



lEtrijoartr 3Bcau Kantr. 

E. D. Rand was born in Batli, December 26, 1821. Soon after graduation at Wes- 
leyan University he went to New Orleans, studied law there, and practised till 
1855, when he re'turneii to his native State and settled in Littleton. In 1861 he re- 
moved to Lisbon. He was made judfje of the circuit court in 1874, and two years 
afterwards he returned to the bar, The real spirit of poetry pervades Mr. Rand's 
verses. He has kindly furnished some original pieces for this volume. 



BEHIND THE VEIL. 

Lo ! the marvellous contrast of shadow and light, — 
Of shadows that darken and lights that adorn ; 
And after the day comes the shadow}' night. 
And after the night come the splendors of morn. 

And raptures and sorrows through all the brief 3'ears 
Keep crossing to weave in the web of our life. 
Till another the greatest of shadows appears, 
To hush into stillness the tumult and strife. 

And thou, Shadow of shadows, tlie darkest of all. 
Concealing what has been and what is to be, 
That best on hfe and its joys like a pall. 
Oh ! what is the splendor, that lies behind thee ? 



TO 



Far away from the purple-hued mountains, 
Far away from the flower-sprinkled lea ; 
Away from the streams and the fountains. 
Alone — by the dim, misty rim of the sea. 

Looking out on the limitless ocean, 

Looking out on the low-lying sand. 

No charm can I see in the motion 

Of waves — or the stillness that rests on the strand. 

Mea speak of the glories and wonders, 
That haunt the dim, mystical sea ; 



EDWARD DEAX liAXD. 253 



But bright to m}^ ej-es are the splendors 
Alone — that S2)eak to my spirit of thee. 

Far up in the heart of the highlands, 
Fondl}^ dreaming, I stand by thy side, 
And I look on the sea and its islands 
No more — and I hear not the wearisome tide. 

Ah ! sad as the winds of December, 

Is the unceasing song of the sea ; 

But the music of songs I remember 

Is sweet — when I walked in the woodlands with thee. 



IN MEMORIAM. 

The spirit hath taken its flight, 

Where the land and the waters meet, 

And never a nobler fight 

Was crowned with immortal defeat. 

O ! weak as the opening air 

To the pressure of death-dealing darts 
Is the burden of innermost prayer. 

From millions of agonized hearts. 

And vain is the vigilant skill 

That watches mysterious laws, 
And vainer the dominant will, 

That clings to a perishing cause. 

Dead ! by the murmuring shore 
Of the cold and passionless sea ; 

O ! brave, noble heart, nevermore. 
Can its voices be music to thee. 

Released from the wearisome strife. 
The torture of laboring breath, — 

Up, into the glor\' of life. 
That gleams through the shadow of death. 



GROWING OLD. 

From success in its pride and defeat in its shame. 
From the later repose, and tlie earlier strife. 
The half that we learn is but knowledge in name. 
And dark is the myst'ry that broods over life. 

I smile at the hopes and the dreams of my youth — 
Brief splendors of morning with clouds overcast ! 



254 rOETS OF NEW HAMP8HIBE. 

Yet something of worth, which I cling to, in sooth. 
Have I wrung from the vanishing 3'ears as tlie}- passed. 

T have painfull}' tested the Old and the New, 

Learned what to distrust and what to believe ; 

Gained a knowledge of things that are steadfast and true, 

And a knowledge of things that will cheat and deceive ; 

Of the uncertain fame of the pen and the sword ; 
Of the pride that arises from ill-gotten gain ; 
Of the glor}^ of labor that seeks no reward, 
But silently carries its burden of pain ; 

Of the courage that faces and tramples on death ; 
Of the garrulous grief, which time will assuage ; 
(3f the bubbles that sparkle and break Avith a breath ; 
Of the love that grows warmer and sweeter with age ; 

Of the valor that turns from a glittering cause, 
In the day and the hour of its noisy success. 
To worship the strength and the stillness of laws. 
That endure through the ages and aeons that pass. 

But alas ! for the knowledge that comes with the flight 

Of the hours ; for a sorrowful thing 'tis to know 

Of the increasing shadow and lessening light, 

As the da3's and the months and the years come and go. 

The friends of my boyhood and 3'outh, one by one, 
And the friends that my manhood held dear, like the gleams 
Of a warm, sweet summer remembered, have gone 
Quite out of my life, and into my dreams. 

And the glow, and the wealth of the morning have passed. 
And the fulness of noon grown empty and cold ; 
And I feel all the sadness that must come at last. 
Of thoughts that are barren, and limbs that are old. 

Yet I welcome the sadness, and weakness of limb, 
For I know that the lights from the City of Rest, 
Shine clearer to him, whose e3'es have grown dim, 
In watching the shadows, that grow in the West. 



William C. Sturoc was born at Arbroath, Forfarshire, Scotland Nov. 4, 18'2'2, and 
received his elementary education, at the "Hamilton Green" and "Grimsby" schools 
of his native town. VVhen a mere lad lie arrived in Montreal, Canada, and remain- 



WILLIAM CANT STUIiOC. 255 

ed there till July 1850, when he came to Newport, and almost immediately com- 
menced the study of law in the office of Edmund Burke. In 1855 he was admitted 
to the bar, and scttleil in Sunapee. Although he has not been in active practice, 
Ills legal reaiiing is still close and extensive. In ISiio, 'G6, '07, and '6S, he represent- 
ed his to^vn in the State Legislature, and was a prominent and active member. 
His speeches, on all occasions, commanded attention : for he has a fervid and earn- 
est manner as a speaker, and combines— which is of ten not the case— an equal rea(l- 
incss with tongue and jicn. He lias cmitributcil l;irgi'lv to the Icttci- jiress of an ex- 
pensive illustrated work just publislic(l at his native place by T. I'.uncle, entitled 
"Round about tlie Uouud O' with its Poets:" and is also given a larire space in the 
4th vol. of "Modern .Scottish i'oets," pubhshed by I). H. Edwards, Brechen, Scot- 
land, last December. 



THE POET'S MITE. 

An ancient epitaph thus quainth'' i-eads, 

Engraved on marble, o'er the worth}' dead : 
"Whate'er we had, to meet our human needs, 

We freel}' gave to feed the poor with bread ; 
And all we gave with free and kindly will 

We have once more — the darksome river crossed ; 
But what we left, that went no void to fill, 

We ne'er shall find, — 'twas profitless, 'tis lost !" 

So what we have of gifts and graces given 

Are only lent us for life's little day : 
Nor shall we do the high behest of Heaven 

If gifts are hidden, or be cast awa^- ; 
And whom the hand of destinj- hath scaled 

As seer and singer for his fellows all, 
'Tis his to scatter o'er earth's fertile field 

The seeds that drop at Inspiration's call. 

And what he sows amid the mist of tears, 

Or in the sunshine of the fairest May, 
Perchance shall blossom through the future years, 

And charm the nations, near and far away ! 
On wings of light his raptured dreams maj' soar. 

Through every clime in earth's remotest bound, 
And break in beaut}- on the glittering shore, 

Where ebb and flow the waves of thought profound ! 

Then let me sing ! O worldling, let me sing ! 

Mayhap m}' warblings with their notes of cheer, 
Will heal some heart that cherislies a sting. 

Or wake the hopeless from their sleep of fear ! 
And thus I give what first to me is given ; 

My heart still grasping at the good and true, 
And trust the rest to high and holy Heaven, 

Which measures doing by the power to do. 



256 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

MARY. 

I saw a vision in my boyish da3"s, 

So briglit, so pure, that in my raptur'd dreaming, 
Its tints of em'rald, and its golden rays 

Had more of heavenly than of earthly seeming ; 
The roseate valley and the sunlit mountain, 

Alike, enchanted as by wand of fairy. 
Breathed out, as from a high and holy fountain, 

On flower and breeze, the lovely name of Mar}'. 

That 3'outhful vision time hath not effaced. 

But year by year the cherish'd dream grew deeper, 
And Memorj^'s hand, at midnight hour oft traced. 

Once more, the faithful vision of the sleeper ; 
No chance or change could ever chase away 

This id(^l-thought, that o'er ray life would tarry, 
And lead me, in the darkest hours, to saj' — 

"My better angel is my hoped-for Mary." 

The name was fix'd — a fact of Fate's recording — 

And swayed by magic all this single heart. 
The strange decree disdained a novel wording, 

And would not from my happ}^ future part ; 
As bright 'twas writ, as is the milky-wa}' — 

The bow of promise in a sk}' unstarry, — 
That shed its light and shone with purest ray, 

Through cloud and tempest, round the name of Mary. 

Burns hymn'd his "Mary," when her soul had pass'd 

Away from earth, and all its sin and sorrow ; 
But mine has been the spirit that hath cast 

A gleam of sunshine on each blessed morrow ; 
And crown'd at last, this trusting heart hath been, 

With fruits of faith, that nought on earth could var}-, 
For I have lived until my eyes have seen 

The vision real, in the form of Mary. 



WASHINGTON. 

Oh Patriot Sage ! Columbia's dearest son ! 
Our country's Father ! famous Washington ! 
How shall we sing — 
How homage bring, 
To deck the memor}'' of the noblest soul 

That ever spent a grand and glorious life ? 
Who led in triumph to fair freedom's goal, 
Nor faltered mid the darkness of the strife. 



WILLIAM CANT STVBOC. 257 



Oh migbty soldier ! first in war's alarms 
Undaunted when the trumpet call "To arms !" 
Roused men to stand, 
Throughout the land, 
For home and freedom, 'gainst oppression's power. 

Thou God-appointed chief, our guide and stay ; 
Our firm reliance in the midnight hour 

That shook the strongest mid the bloody fray. 

Oh matchless statesman ! first and best in peace ! 
Still calm and mighty when red war's surcease 
Claimed hands deep skilled 
To plan and build — 
Far from the despot's or the anarch's grasp — 

The glorious fabric of a nation free, 
Each stone sure fastened with the golden clasp 
Of wisdom, strength, and state fraternity. 

Oh first within the bosom of thy countr3'men ! 
Thy name and fame shall evermore remain 
Without a peer, 
To millions dear. 
The silent circumspection of thy heart 

Did slander's shafts full oft but vainlj- try ; 
Thy faith no tempest shock could part ; 
Thy ark and anchor, human liberty ! 

Long may we guard, as with a flaming sword, 
The sacred volume of Columbia's word, 
That when our day 
Shall pass away. 
Our children's children, to the latest hour. 

Shall peal their anthems down from sire to son. 
As now we grateful bless the Heavenh* Power 
That gave our own immortal Washington ! 



LAKE SUNAPEE. 

Once more my muse ! from rest of man}- a 3'ear, 
Come forth again and sing, as oft of yore ; 

Now lead m}' steps to where the crags appear 
In silent grandeur, b}* the rugged shore 

That skirts the margin of thy waters free. 

Lake of my mountain home, loved Sunapee ! 

Meet invocation to the pregnant scene, 

Where, long ere yet the white man's foot had come, 



258 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

Roam'd wild and free the daring Algonquin, 
And where perchance the stately Metacora 
Inspired his braves with that poetic strain 
Which cheer'd the Wampauoags, but cheer'd in vain. 

Clear mountain mirror ! who can tell but thou 
Hast borne the red man in his light canoe, 

As fleetly on thy bosom as e'en now 

Thou bear'st the paleface o'er thy waters blue ; 

And who can tell but nature's children then. 

Were rich and happy as the mass of men ? 

Sweet Granite Katrine of this mountain land ! 

Oh jewel set amid a scene so fair ! 
Kearsarge, Ascutne}^ rise on either hand, 

While Grantham watches with a lover's care, 
And Sunapee to Croydon sends in glee 
A greeting o'er th}^ silvery breast, Lake Sunapee ! 

How grand, upon a moonlit eve, to glide 

Upon thy waters, 'twixt the mountains high, 
And gaze within thy azure crj^stal tide, 

On trembling shadows of the earth and sky ; 
While all is silent, save when trusty oar 
Awakes an echo from thy slumbering shore ! 

Ab ! where shall mortals holier ground espy, 

From which to look where hope doth point the gaze, 

Than from the spot that speaks a Deity, 
In hoary accents of primeval praise ? 
And where shall man a purer altar find 

From which to worship the Almighty mind ? 

Roll on, sweet lake ! and if perchance thy form 
Laves less of earth than floods of western fame, 

Yet still we love thee, in the calm or storm, 
And call thee ours by man}'^ a kindly name ; 

What patriot heart but loves the scenes that come 

O'er memory's sea, to breathe a tale of home. 

And when the winter, in its frozen thrall. 
Binds up th}' locks in braids of icy wreath, 

Forget we not thy cherished name to call, 
In fitting shadow of the sleep of death ; 

But morn shall dawn upon our sleep, and we, 

As thou in springtime, wake, sweet Sunapee ! 



WILLIAM CANT STUHOC. 259 



THE UNREWARDED. 

How oft the olden storj'- 

Of struggle after glorj-, 
Hath echoed sudh- down the faded ages ! 
How oft the scant but deathl}- wages, 

The toiler has been paid ; 

And, all neglected laid 
In kind and kindred mold, unsung, unwept ; 

His pregnant tale securely, sadly kept ! 

And still. Time's seething spray, 

Rolls over earth to-day. 
And rimes the locks of Genius, as of old ; 
And poets sing, amid the scorn so cold, 

The deaf dead sons of men. 

Deal out, again, again. 
Till the poor shivering hungrj' tenement 
Is buried out of sight — hope crush'd — heart rent ! 

Then comes the blatant grief. 

As hollow as 'tis brief. 
That wails above Cervantes, and o'er Burns ; 
And gives the cold dead dust, in golden urns ; 

What had been best bestowed. 

While warm blood quickly flowed 
About the dreaming, agonizing heart, 
That hoped in vain, till soul and blood did part ! 

Oh Genius ! tell me why 

'Tis thus your fate to die 
Of hunger, while the stark dumb beasts are fed? 
Why does the singer often lack for bread ; 

Or frantic, bite the dust ; 

Or gnaw the beggar's crust ; 
Or, choked like Otway ; or like Chatterton, 
Scowl on a stony world, and then pass on?. 

Good heavens ! I inly pray, 

That all maj- swift decay — • 
Proud heart, and fancy-freighted brain — 
Wlien from the rai)t Parnassian domain, 

With all its gifts secure,. 

1 fail, so sunken poor, 
As not to spurn tlie dead clods where the_v lie, 
And plume my wing for yet a loftier sky f 



260 POETS OF NEW HAMP8HIBE. 

iSugcne l]3adjeltrrr. 

Eugene Bachelder was a native of New Ipswich. He removed to SacQ, Me. in 
1831; to Qiuibridge, Mass., in 1844; graduated from Harvard Law School, class of 
1S45; mariied in 1804, and from that time to his decease in 1878, resided at Dover,' 
Mass. Mr. Bach(.'ldc;r never practised law to any great extent, its details not being 
congenial to his teni\ieratnent. He published many poems, wliich were considered of 
much merit, ami of which -'A Romance of the Sea Serpent" passed thi-ough four edi- 
tions. With his literary eflorts, he engaged in the cultivation of the soil, and in 
that department was quite successful. 



THE UNION. 

Where is the spirit our fathers felt? 

Where are the hopes that grew 
When in pra^'er on the battle-field they knelt, 

And swore to be brave and true? 
When lifting high the arm^d hand, 

And bowing the plumed head, 
They prayed — "Oh God ! may the Union stand !' 

Then rushed where the valiant bled. 

Has that hallowed influence fled ? 

Those hopes from our heart died out? 
Is that prayer, and that spirit wholly dead ? 

Are our minds and souls less stout? 
We need not pra}' where our fathers prayed. 

In the ranks of a steadfast band ; 
But we'll say, like heroes undisma3'ed, 

''Oh God ! may this Union stand ! 



FAIR COLUMBIA. 

The life we live we live for thee, 

Columbia, fair Columbia ! 
No land so happy, fair and free, 

As happy, fair Columbia ! 
Brave souls are battling for the right. 
Brave hearts are rushing to the fight, 
The nation rises in its might. 

For happy, fair, Columbia ! 

Weep for the gallant valiant men 

Who die for fair Columbia ! 
They shall arise to life again. 

Above our fair Columbia ! 
Ah ! yes, to life immortal rise. 
And form an army in the skies. 
To guard the freedom freemen prize. 
And shield our fair Columbia 1 



JOSEPH BB WN SMITH. 26 1 

Hark ! to a patriot's loud appeal, 

Columbia, fair Columbia ! 
My mother-land to thee I kneel, 

In prater for Columbia. 
Thy glorious chivalry shall rise 
With dauntless hearts, and eagle e^'es, 
And wave victorious to the skies 

Thy banner, fair Columbia ! 

Oh God ! shall mortal man control 

In happy, fair Columbia ! 
The life of one immortal soul, 

In happy, free Columbia? 
No ! better that the traitor knaves 
"Were heaped by thousands in their graves, 
AVho boast they'd make all freemen slaves. 

In happ3', fair Columbia ! 

No ! high above, in clouds of light, 

Above our fair Columbia 
Sits God, the Arbiter of fight, 

The Shield of fair Columbia ! 
There hosts on hosts of angels bright 
Are battling with us for the right, 
God's arm the rebel horde shall smite. 

And free our fair Columbia ! 



Joscpi) i]3rob)n S»niti). 

Joseph n. Smith, a native of Dover, was born March 14, 182:!. At birth his sijrht 
was perfect, l)iit before lie was two weeks old a disease fastened upon his eyea, 
which resulted in total blindness. When three years of age he U)St his father. 
His mother then removed to Portsmouth, where he lived six years. In 1832 he 
went to the institution of the blind, in Boston, where he spent eight years. In 
1840 he entered Harvard College and grailuate<l in 1844. He then went to Louis- 
ville, Ky., and became Professor of Music in the Kentucky Institution for the 
Blind. He died in that city. May G, IS-W. He was a good scholar in Latin, (ireek 
and Mathematics. He had rare musical powers, and apprcciaieii and enjoyed 
music of the highest order. In that he reveled. His .soul resi)t)nded to the songs 
and choral symphonies in which the great masters gave expression to thoughts and 
emotions too vast for words, too deep for tears. He wrote a few occasioual 
poems, .some of which were printed in raised letters for the blind. . 



TO MY MOTHER. 

My mother dear, while every thought and feeling 

Vibrates responsive to' some note of glee. 
And visions, fraught with pleasure o'er me stealing, 

Tell of the past, I'll sing a song to thee : 
No wail of discontent, no tone of sadness, 

Shall mingle with the music of my lyre, 
But ev'ry chord shall speak my spirit's gladness. 

And peaceful murmurs breathe from everv wire. 



2fi2 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

'Twas then with tender care, with love unceasing, 

In helplessness m}- little life to keep. 
Ere I could know whence came the fond caressing, 

Or contemplate a love so pure and deep ; 
And when thou sawest that vision was denied me, 

That tree and flower could have no charm for me, 
Oft hast thou, rent with anguish, sat beside me. 

And wept to think I ne'er might look on thee. 

To feel I could not know when thou wast gazing 

In fond delight upon thy sightless child — 
A^or, while my darkened e^'e-balls upward raising, 

Return that mother's look so calm and mild ; 
That grief is past, for, though I never knew thee 

Through the soft language of an earthly sight. 
In thought by day, in dreams by night, I view thee 

With the soul's e^-e, in beams of clearer light. 

Mother, adieu ! whate'er the time or distance. 

Or adverse fate that sunders us, may be. 
Still kept and cherished as my own existence 

Sliall be the mem'r}- of thy love for me : 
As the 30ung stork, almost endued with reason. 

His aged parent on his pinion bears, 
So I look forward to that happy season, 

When I may bear thy burden and thy cares. 



HYMN. 



Afraid to die ! O, itlle fear. 
Since God, our Father, is so near. 
With loving ai'ms to clasp the soul. 
Released from pain and earth's control. 

Afraid to die ! O, idle thought. 

Since Christ the immortal life hath brought 

So clearl}' to our raptured eyes. 

How can we shrink from paradise. 

Afraid to die ! O, idle words ; 
Some we have loved are now the Lord's ; 
Thej' long to share the joys they know 
With us who still remain below. 

Afraid to die? no. Father, no ; 
When thou slialt call, I'll gladly go; 
In death or life I would be thine, 
And to thy will my own resign. 



DANIEL AUGUSTUS DROWN. 2fi8 

IBanizi Augustus Broton. 

D. A. Drown was born in Portsmouth, Ai)ril 17, 1823. lie .srraduatcd at nart- 
moiith College in 1844, About four mouths after leaving collo;;e his eyosi.Ljlit became 
suddenly affected, llelief was at lirst sought in various directions and by various 
means, hut in vain. A EuroiJcan visit resulted in like disapiiointnu'iit. Since that 
time, now more than thirty-live years, he has been conllned to a lUirkened room tor- 
tured by almost incessant pain, rendering lil'e bereft of its greatest enjoyment. 
Notwlthiganding this painful condition, he has struggled hard to alleviate his suf- 
ferings by occuisional literary efforts. A vivid recollection of his classical stu<lie8 
has served to mitigate the hardness of his lot. A resolute and abiding Christian 
faith, fortified by the tender and sympathising utterances of disinterested friends. has 
enabled him thiis far to bear the heavy burden so niyteriously j)laced upon him. 
In 187;J an elegant volume containing 115 of his poems was issued from the press of 
Kami, Avery A Co. It is entitled -'Idyls of Strawberry Bank." It is an interesting 
volume of excellent poetry, illustrateil with engravings. 



BEAUTIFUL IS MOONLIGHT. 

Beautiful is moonlight, flashing through the trees, 
Kissing trembling leaflets ruffled b^- the breeze, 
Gilding branch and flower with a mellow hue. 
Giving each new beaut}', charming to the view. 
With a chain of silver earth and heaven unite ; 
Peaceful thoughts fl}- homeward, up the shining height; 
Thence our hearts will follow to that other shore. 
Where true beauty lingers, fadeless evermore. 

Beautiful is moonlight resting on the billow, 
Softly as an infant on its downy pillow ; 
The blue waters bridging with a golden way. 
As if paved with jewels b^' the god of day. 
O'er this shining pathwa}- fanc}' oft will roam. 
And behold pure spirits passing to their home, 
By the fragrant zeph3Ts swiftly fanned along. 
While the blessed angels chant their sweetest song. 

O'er the fields of clover swift the moonbeams glide. 
Shooting o'er dark valleys where the streamlets hide, 
Lighting up the meadows, where the crystal dew 
Sparkles on the herbage, cooling it anew. 
Througii the woods and orchards their glowing track is seen, 
Smilingly "bo-peeping" tlirough the branches green ; 
While the fragrant blossoms, touched with silver glow, 
Whisper to each other approvingly, I know. 

What a flood of glory bathes the fields and flowers ! 
What inspiring stillness charms the midnight hours ! 
What a gush of feeling wells up from the soul, 
While the grateful anthems through its arches roll ! 
And the very silence beautifies the scene. 
Blending all the glory with a joy serene, 
As the gentle whispers of a Father's love 
Lead the willing spirit to its home above. 



264 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

Beauteous moonlight evenings have a silent power, 
Soothing oft the weary in a troubled hour, 
When inspired voices sing within the breast, 
Telling their glad story, — perfect, endless rest. 
Let my fancy revel with the moonbeams bright, 
Though I do not gaze upon their silver light. 
By and by made perfect, on the "shining shore," 
I'll view all its glories, happj' evermore. 



MAY-FLOWERS. 

Sweet gifts of May, fair blossoms of the spring ! 
Your fragrant breath proclaims to me 
That sunny days have smiled on thee, 
And warmed thee into life again, 
'Mid melting snows and April rain ; 

And now my muse thy praise would sing. 

What pleasant thoughts your dewy petals bring 

Of former days of sun and shower. 

When blooming health blest every hour ; 

When bud and blossom, leaf and tree, 

In early spring gave joy to me ! 
To all those years what sunny memories cling ! 

Fair buds of May, what trust thy frail lives teach ! 

Though veiled beneath the drifted snow, 

A calm repose ,ye found below 

Green ferns and mosses of the wood, 

Content with thine own solitude, 
Sure that the sun's bright beams thy couch would reach. 

And smile as mothers smile u|)on the face 
Of little ones in peaceful rest, 
Glad to obey their first behest. 
When new life wakens with the light. 
When angels cease their watch by night. 

And give to each fair child new strength and grace. 

Sweet children, come ! come, whisper in my ear 
With fragrant breath the lesson taught 
By Him whose loving care is fraught 
With precious blessings, numbered o'er 
For all his children, rich and poor, 

That I may ever feel his presence near. 



DANIEL A UG USTUS DB WN. 265 

Ob ! let my faith be strong in bim eac-b dixy ; 
So tbat in evciy darksoine hour, 
AVlien sbadows round my tent n)ay k>wer, 
Or when my sky glows brigbt with love, 
Froeceding from the throne above, 

I e'er may learn sweet trust from "flowers of May." 



THE OLD ELM. 

I love the old elm in the orchard. 

Which sU)pes to the edge of tlie stream, 
"Where, with the fresh spii'its of boyhood, 

I passed tlirough life's sunniest dream : 
Its boughs towered high in their grandeur, 

Far up in the fair azure skv. 
Where songsters might nestle their offspring, 

And mischief could never come nigh. 

Its roots, once most firmlj' embedded, 

Were washed b}- the oft-flowing tide, 
Which told to all sorrowing schoolboys, 

It might not much longer abide. 
We made of its long-running fibres 

Some fairy-like baskets at will, 
Which earned such acceptable praises 

As if wrought with magical skill. 

I think of the well-chosen hollow 

In the clean, grassy-carpeted ground, 
AVhere caps tilled with a})ples were carried, 

And desserts for evening were found ; 
When, gathered in circles most friendly, 

And cosey as birds in a nest. 
We listened to tales oft repeated, 

Exciting each juvenile breast. 

How often those tales, which in childhood 

Are mentioned as fanciful things. 
Are found in life's warfare more truthful, 

In facts which experience brings ! 
How oft are those bright, sunny mornings. 

When shadows as strangers are known. 
Exchanged for those lone, cheerless evenings, 

When moon into twilight has grown ! 

Yes : youth has its charms and its pleasures, 
And manhood its joys and its fears ; 



266 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Both leaving on memoiy's tablet 
The well-written record of 3'ears. 

And while through life's garden we ramble, 
To gather once more its bright flowers, 

How often each scene then reminds us 
Of some of our happiest hours ! 

The elm with its gi'andeur has fallen, 

A vestige no longer remains ; 
The birds have all ceased in its branches 

To sing their melodious strains ; 
And the boys who once pla^-ed in its shadow 

Are scattered wide over the earth. 
Denied those exuberant feelings 

Which innocent childhood gave birth. 

Although both the elm and the orchard 

Have passed long ago from our sight. 
And the hum of the unwearied steam-mill 

Is heard noAv by day and by night ; 
Still round that old spot there yet cluster 

Bright visions of scenes that are past, 
And a savor of freshness and gladness, 

Which will ever iu memory last. 



JESUS, MY HOPE. 

With hope in Christ, I fear no ill. 
For his right hand supports me still ; 
Though trials here my paths surround, 
I boast in him m}- strength is found. 
He will suppl}' sustaining grace 
To those who seek with love his face. 

When clouds around my tent prevail, 
And gloomy thoughts my peace assail ; 
When cherished hopes are severed here, 
Where strong hearts know the bitter tear, 
In him a safe retreat I find : 
A refuge from each storm}' wind. 

When bound by sad affliction's chain, 
Oppressed with grief, beset with pain ; 
When tedious days new troubles weave, 
So that to dust my soul would cleave. 
One lively hope illumes the night : 
Jesus is near, though veiled from sight. 



ADALIZA CUTLER PHELPS. 207 



When J03' and love expand their wings, 

M}' heart with wonder often sings, 

That I have found, in one so dear, 

A bosom friend, forever near, 

Who will his promises defend, 

And ne'er forsake, though time should end. 

In Jesus all my peace is found : 

He makes m}' purest jo3's abound ; 

He bids me at his table wait 

To share the banquet free and great. 

1 tarry long : my soul is fed 

By angel hands with heavenly bread. 

His presence I more highly prize 
Than all the gold beneath the skies : 
My birthright here I would not lose 
For all the honors I could choose : 
More precious far than rubies rare, 
His words my cherished treasures are. 

Blest Jesus ! I would see th}' face, 
In whom I trust for ever}- grace : 
Thy friendly counsels I would hear, 
With cheerful heart and willing ear. 
Oh ! grant me still thy power divine : 
Thine arms of love still round me twine. 



^tialiia OTutler JJijclps. 

Mrs. Phplps was a native of .laffroy, born in 1823. In tliat town she was cfhira 
tc<l, marricii, and livod until her death in 18.V2. Her i)oelical worlvs are contained 
lu a closely printed volume, published by John F. Jcwett and Company, BoBtou. 



TO A BIRD IN MIDWINTER. 

Say, lovel}' bird, why dost thou linger here. 

Mid scenes so dark, so desolate, and drear? 

No summer sun is shining o'er thy head ; 

The leaves are scattered, eveiy floweret dead. 

The grass is faded on the breezy hills, 

The ice hath bound the streams and dancing rills. 

Why dost thon linger, why not haste awa}'. 
Why mid the winds and storms prolong thy stay? 
No gentle breezes fan thy downy breast. 
Among our groves thou now canst lind no rest. 
Dark, fearful clouds are sailing through the air; 
King Winter brings decay to all things fair. 



268 POETS OF NEW HAMP8HIBE. 

Why dost thou linger, what can chain thee here? 
Doth not thy little heart beat wild with fear 
When winds are blowing, when fierce storms arise, 
And veil in darkness the bright sunny skies ? 
When snows lie deep on all the hills around, 
And no green spot, no shelt'ring nook is found ? 

Why dost thou linger? there are skies more fair, 
Where flowers ne'er fade, where balmy is the air ; 
^ Where richest fruits hang on the waving trees, 
And cooling winds come blowing o'er the seas ; 
There forests, fields and hills are ever green. 
Winter's dark footsteps never there are seen. 

Why dost thou linger? there thy mates are gone, 
And left thee here forsaken and forlorn ; 
There the}' are sailing through a sunn}' sky, 
While thou art waiting here to droop and die ; 
Thy wing is wear}', and thy songs are o'er. 
And thou wilt cheer us with thy notes no more. 

But when the spring returns, when winter flies. 
And when the sun shines brightly in the skies, 
When flowers come back, and the green leaves appear, 
And all thy mates are once more with us here, 
Thou wilt be missing, we no more shall see 
Thy tiny form upon the forest tree. 

But thou wilt lie all still, and cold, and dead, 
Perchance upon some violet's blue bed ; 
Thy bright eye closed, broken thy shining wing. 
While o'er thy head some gayer bird may sing ; 
While flowers are growing round thee bright and fair. 
Music and sunshine reignino; in the air. 



J. R. Dodge was born in New Boston, September 28, 1823. After learning the 
trade of printer in the office of the Amherst Cabinet he linislied his school educa- 
tion, and at the age of twenty one toolc charge of an academy in Mississippi, where 
he was successfully engaged" for live years in teaching. lie was editor and publish- 
er of "The Oasis" in Nashua in 1849; went to Ohio in IS,^.'), and engaged in a manu- 
facturing enterprise until 1857, when he began the publication of an agricultural 
newspaper, the American RuraJist. In 18G1 he became Senate Reporter of the 
National Intelligencer in Washington, D. C., and afterwards was Statistician of the 
Department of Agriculture from 1866 to 1878. During this period while editor of 
the Department publications, over three million copies of the annual volume were 
ordered by Congress, and as many issues of the monthly series published, besides 
many miscellaneous reports. In 1873 he spent the summer in Europe in the work 
of a statistical commission, and also as Honorary Commissioner to the Vienna 
Exhibition. He resigned his place in the service of the Department of Agri 
culture in 1878, with the intention of devoting himself to journalism and agri- 
cultural literatui-e, for which he has a passionate taste, but was persuaded to 



JACOB BICHABDS DODGE. 269 

accept a temporarj' commission for statistical investigation in the Treasury Depart- 
ment, before the completion of which he was tendered the charg-e of the collection 
of statistics of Agriculture of the Census, whiili was continued from 1S78 until the 
jiresent year. In 18,sl lie again accepted the (losition in the DepMrtment of Agri- 
culture which he had previously held for twelve years. In the midst of this busy 
and progressive life Mr. Dodge has found little time for authorship, yet lie has 
given eviiience of his ability in his "Ued Men of the Ohio Valley," a history of the 
Indians of that region, and his "\Ve.~t Virginia," descriptive of its resources. In 
Issi Dartmouth Ccdlege conferred upon him the degree of Master of Arts. Mr. 
|)<'d!jc insists that he is not a poet, but admits that in early youth he indulged in a 
rhyming propensity. 



THE MARINER'S BETROTHED. 

I hear the night winds wailing For oh ! in storm so cheerless 
Across the snowy lea, How can I calmly rest, 

Then think of one now sailing While he, the brave and fearless. 
Far o'er the stormy sea. Eludes 1113- heart's fond quest? 

With watchful ear I hearken, That heart in tumult beating. 

His voice haunts every sound,,^;^^ roars the wintry blast, 
While fear, my hopes to darken, ^liere crashing waves are meet- 

Casts dismal shades around. _, ^"''' . ., , , 

Hopes on unto tlie last. 

Oh no ! I did not hear him, Alonzo ! — dying? — living? 

Away far o'er the main ; Beneath? — above the main? 

May God in mercy clear him Oh heaven ! thy mercy giving. 

From ills in danger's train. Restore him safe again ! 

TK«x„:„/io ^,,,r «i.o,,f tii^;,./]i,.nroaThe maiden ceased herspeaking, 
Ihewindsmay chant their dirges _ , , ., ^ ^, w 

Howl o'er the billowy deei" ^ /" «'^^V.? tf ^^T^"'^'- 1 
Yet He who rolls the surges ^he heard the wild winds shnek- 



Will bold Alonzo keep. 



ine- 



She heard — but heeded not, — 



But human weakness falters. On threshold,the bright presence, 
j\Iy faith gives way to fears, The glad and goodl}- gleam 

And love bathes duty's altars Of ejes that sparkled pleasance 
In unrestrained tears. Of love's young fateful dream. 



THE LOVELY DEAD. 

As vanishes the sunset light. 
As disappear the shades of night, 

So vanislieth 

The mortal breath 
Of those too fair for homes of earth. 
Whose joys are of celestial birth. 



270 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

How can with grief the bosom swell, 
How can dark sorrow's saddening spell 
En pall the heart 
When friends depart, 
"Whose lives in love and sweetness shine 
With radiance pure and glow divine ! 

The loved on earth — how brief their stay 
Yet live they still in realms of da}' ; 

The}' will not here 

Again appear. 
Yet earth retains a charm, a grace. 
From their late presence on its face. 

With sweeter food no soul is fed, 
Than memorj' of sainted dead ! 
An incense meet. 
Pure, fragrant, sweet, 
The memor}' of tlie dead doth rise 
To join the earth unto the skies ! 



NEW HAMPSHIRE IN THE CENTURIES. 

THE EIGHTEENTH IMMIGRATION. 

Stern men of faith, strong will, of brawn and nerve. 
Sought granite hills that frowned on rocky coasts, 
To build thereon a state ; to fill with hosts 

Of people who from duty could not swerve. 

They planted on each hill a school, a spire. 

Felled forests, made new homes, vexed streams with dams. 
Built mills, raised kine and flocks of lambs, 

W iiile keeping brightly live a patriotic fire ; 
And looking to the future, cares and joys 

Came on with troops of girls and boys. 

THE NINTEENTH MIGRATION. 

Farms dot the intervales, herds climb the hills, 
And comfort, culture, come from patient toil ; 
Skill strives ; invention burns the midnight oil ; 

A strange unrest, a wild ambition thrills 

The souls so resolute to do and dare. 

To conquer continents, to build new states, 
And open to high progress all the gates 

That bar the way — while in their native air. 
And on ancestral hills, their brothers strong 
Fight care, win bread, love truth and hate a wrong. 



WILLIAM PL UMER. 2 7 1 



THE TWENTIETH A PROPHECY. 

The western Switzerland — a refuge fair 

For wandering sons, tired denizens of towns, 
And weary mortals on wlioni Hygeia frowns — 

Weds art to nature, buds with beauties rare ; 

Production donbles on her well kept farms, 
New arts arise, the hill lands teem with men 
Who graze the slopes, to gardens turn the glen, 

And heighten all of Nature's native charms ; 
While virtue flourishes and morals shine, 
And graces mould the human form divine. 



William Plunier is a grandson of Governor William Plumer and a son of Wlllinm 
Plunier whose poems are found in this volume. He was born in Popping. Nov. 29, 18-23. 
I n 1845 he graduated at Harvard College, and at the Cambridge Law School in IsJs. 
He practised law in Boston. In 186-2 he was made Captain of the "Andrew Sharp 
Shooters." He took part in both battles of Fredericksliurg, and at Gettysburg; 
WHS wounded in action, sent to the hospital, and discliargcd the last of 1863. llo 
has been three or four years in the Kcvuuue Service, but is now engaged in scienliJic 
pursuits, in Lexington, Mass. 



THE BLIND BOY. 

The}" tell me oft, in joyous tones, 

The skies are clear and bright, 
That nature smiles in loveliness. 

And beauty crowns the night ; 
That fields are decked with violets, 

And roses grace the lea. 
That grass}' meads with lilies bloom — 

Yet all is dark to me ; — 

That stariy gems are nightly seen. 

Set in the silver waves, 
Where deep old ocean rolls along, 

Above his coral caves ; 
That nature's hand has painted bright, 

In colors fair to see, 
Hope's radiant bow around the skies — 

Yet all is dark to me. 

But ah ! at this, I would not sigh. 

Could I but onl}' see 
M}' mother smile upon her bo}", — 

For all is dark to me. 
But soon around my silent grave. 

The flowers will blossom bright, 
And I shall be with God above. 

Kissed b}' his smile to light. 



272 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Joijn (!Buinc8 Etrams S^Hootr. 

J Q. A. Wood, the eldest son of Col. Eliplialet Wood of Loudon and a nephew 
of Kuv. Henrj' Wood, was born at Chichester, Feb. 8tli, 1815. His father emigrated 
to Michigan, with his family, in the spring of 1831, and settled near tlie village of 
TccuuiM^'h in Lenawee County. Quincy was necessarily engaged, in his boyhood, 
on ilie farm during spring and summer, but was sent witli his In-otliers to the 
village school autumns and winters. After he and his brother William had en- 
tered on a preparatory course for a collegiate education at Teeumseh, they were 
sent back to tiieir native State and completed their preparatory studies at New 
London, whence they were admitted to the Freshman class in Dartmouth College 
in 1839. Here they remained until the close of their Junior year, when tliey en- 
tered Union College, N. Y., where they graduated in 1843. Here the brothers sep- 
arated, William returning to Teeumseh, where he adopted law as a profession, and 
Quincy to his native State where he became a law student in the office of Hon. 
Leonard Wilcox of Orford, but subsequently pursued his legal studies in the of- 
fice of Fierce & Fowler at Concord, where he was admitted to the bar in 1846. Tiie 
brothers married sisters, Quincy, Emily Maria, and William Julia A. A., daughters 
of Mr. Ezekiel Sargent of New London. The poems of tlie latter lady are repre- 
sented in tills work. Soon after his marriage, Quiucy returned to Michigan and 
settled down to his profession in the city of Ann Arbor, where his accomplisheil 
wile was Principal of a Young Ladies' Academy for eight years. While on a visit 
to her relatives in New Hampshire she died suddenly in 1854 and has her grave 
among her native hills which she loved so well. 

The poet has consecrated her memory in the stanzas entitled, To Her who sits in 
soft attire. Alter the deatli of Mrs. Wood, her husband went to Minnesota and re- 
joined his brother William, who had been appointed by President Pierce, U. S. 
Laud Receiver at Sauk liapids. Subsequently he visited Southwestern Kentucky, 
where another brother, Dr. A. C. Wood lia<l long resided, at the city of Owensboro. 
Here he contracted a second marriage with Mrs. Mary E. Johnson, an accomplish- 
ed lady of Louisville. His wife brouglit lo him a hun<lsome estate and he assumed 
the responsibilities of a southern planter. When the clouds of the Rebellion began 
to darken the southei-n sky and the "peculiar institution" emperilled, he sohi the 
plantation and retired wilh liis family into the city of Owensboro. Here he 
purchased an interest in and edited the Southern Kentucky Shield until compelled 
to yield to the violence of the times and discontinue his paper. After the close ot 
the war, he returned to Sauk Rapids, where he now resides in the practice of his 
profession, and where his brother William died in 1870. 



INVOCATION TO SPRING. 

This Invocation to Spring was suggested by the following passages contained in 
a letter friini a lady friend to the author. They will explain what might other- 
wise apiiear incongruous in the sonnet. 

She writes : Our gifted and eccentric yoimg friend Everett is no more. He died 
at the residence of his father in Newport on tlie itith of March a little after midnight. 
A death so serene and mDurntully beautiful, so to speak, was, perhaps never be- 
fore witnessed. His youth, his anibition to achieve sumething noble in learning, Ms 
peculiar but fascinating notions of existence and his early i leath have deeply impres- 
sed us all. He longed for the return of spring, and fully believed in the omnipotence 
of its healing gifts to restore his wasted energies, and sometimes almost petulantly 
chicled its delay. His religious views— if religious they can be called— were pan- 
theistic, strongly infected with the mythology of the ancients, over which he pored 
until this singular stiuly became a passion. Recalling the Roman custom just 
before he expired, the dying student desired his sister to receive his parting breath. 
His last words words "Eflie, when I am gone, Spring will return with its violets, 
I shall live in them." 

0, blue-eyed Spring ! why, why this long delay? 
I droop, I languish ibr thy baln\y breath. 

To pale despair and fell disease a prey, 

I sink untimely to the shades of death ! 
What fairer orb detains thee to my wrong ? 

What fonder souls engage thy smiling charms ? 

1, too, did once beguile thee with my song. 
In a green valley, circled in thine arms. 



JOHN QUINCT ADAMS WOOD. 273 

Daily for thee I pine, for thee expire, 

Casting m}' eyes o'er Lethe's voiceless sea, 

And backward with unutterable desire 

Of longing hope, that thou wilt succor me. 

O, for th}' dropping dews and soft winged sighs. 
To bathe my wasted cheek and sleepless eyes. 

Come breathe upon me with th}' rosy mouth, 

Sweet with the airs and odors of Brazil, 
Of flowery isles far oceaned in the South 

And me from tortures snatch that wound and kill, 
Or never more for me the budding spray 

May teach its tender verdure to unfold, 
As, when Avithin th}' circling arms I lay. 

And thee of pale Endymion's passion told, 
O that thou wouldst again upon me look 

And kiss me into slumber — once again 
On grassy mount beside the tuneful brook, 

Bathe me in sunbeams ! But I sue in vain. 
E'en, in my sight be3'ond the rifted cloud. 
Fate with a flying shuttle, weaves m}- shroud ! 

Sweet truant of the skies ! ne'er shalt thou more 

From light dreams call me to renewed delight ; 
Charon awaits with torch and leaden oar, 

M}- soul to pilot to the caves of night. 
As fed the vultures on the culprit bound, 

Whom angr}- Jove to living death decreed, 
With tortures new, afresh to rend the wound. 

So, on ni}' life, doth pale consumption feed ! 
Swift be thy wing, or ever thou shalt come, 

AVith downy gales and slcAey draperies. 
These lips which now beseech thee shall be dumb, 

And all lack-lustered these sad longing eyes ; 
Ah, then in vain above m}- narrow mound. 
Wilt thou thyself with useless sorrow wound. 

One little boon I ask, one fond request, 

AVhich thou, ga}- loiterer, wilt not me den}'. 
When thou returnest and findest me the guest 

Of death and hapless shades from life that fly ; 
It is that in the seasons' annual round. 

When thou dost on thine orient car appear. 
In floral pomp, thy zone with garlands bound, 

Thou'lt, pitying, turn aside and drop a tear 
O'er me, untimely lost — each pearl of grief 

Transformed to breathing violets on my tomb ; 



274 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

So shalt thou, in their sacred flower and leaf, 
Recall my hapless shade and mortal bloom. 
I ask but this. M}- former visions flee, 
And I escape from life and, O, from thee. 



FATHER'S GROWING OLD, JOHN. 

Father's growing old, John, his eyes are getting dim. 
And years have on his shoulders laid a heav}' weight for him ; 
But 3'ou and I are young and hale, and each a stalwart man. 
And we must make his load as light and easy as we can. 

He used to take the brunt, John, at cradle and the plough. 
And earned our porridge b}- the sweat that trickled from his brow ; 
Yet never heard we him complain, whate'er his toil might be, 
Nor wanted e'er a welcome seat upon his solid knee. 

But when our boj'-strength came, John, and sturdy grew each 

limb, 
He brought us to the 3-ellow field, to share the toil with him ; 
But he went foremost in the swath, tossing aside the grain. 
Strong as the plough that heaves the soil, or ship that cleaves 

the main. 

Now we must lead the van, John, through weather foul and fair, 
And let the old man read and doze, and tilt his easy chair ; 
And he'll not mind it, John, you know, at eve, to tell us o'er 
Those brave old tales of British times, of grandsire and the war. 

I heard you speak of mother, John ; 'tis gospel what 3'ou say, 
That caring for the like of us, has turned her head so gray ; 
Yet, John, I do remember well, when neighbors called her vain, 
And when her hair was long and like a gleaming sheaf of grain. 

Her lips were cherry red, John, her cheek was round and fair, 
And like a ripened peach it swelled against her wavy hair ; 
Her step fell lightly as the leaf from otf the summer tree, 
And all day busj' at her wheel, she sang to you and me. 

She had a buxom arm, John, that wielded well the rod, 
Whene'er wnth willful step our feet the path forbidden trod ; 
But to the heaven of her eyes we never looked in vain. 
And ever to our yielding cry her tears dropped down like rain ! 

But that is long agone, John, and we are what we are. 
And little heed we day by da}', her fading cheek and hair ; 
Ah, when within her faithful breast, the tides no longer stir, 
'Tis then, John, that we most shall feel, we had no friend like her. 



JOHN QUINCY ADAMS WOOD. 



Sure there can be no harm, John, thus speaking softl3' o'er 
The blessed names of those, ere long, shall welcome us no more 
Kay ! hide it not — for why should'st thou an honest tear disown 
Thy heart one day will lighter be, remembering it has flown. 

Yes, father's growing old, John, his eyes are getting dim. 
And mother's treading softl3- down the dim descent with him ; 
But you and I are 3'oung and hale, and each a stalwart man. 
And we must make their path as smooth and level as we can. 



TO HER WHO SITS IN SOFT ATTIRE. 

Mine own beloved in blest abodes, 

Canst thou retrace tliine earthward way ? 
Or, canst thou 'midst the heavenly odes. 

Discern my poor, heart-broken lay ? 
If angels feel lor. mortal love, 

And grieve there o'er its ruined shrine, 
Then in those blissful seats above, 

How tender is th}' grief for mine ! 

"Where dost thou trail th}- robes of light? 

Bj' what far orb's celestial tide? 
O, for a vision of the night, 

To show me where thou dost abide ! 
A dream, a vision of the night — 

A chariot with its steeds of fire 
To waft me to that heavenl}' hight. 

Where thou dost sit in soft attire. 

I have not thriven since the da}'. 

That thou wast taken from m}- side ; 
Have wandered from the flower}- way. 

We travelled when thou wast my guide. 
As, without thee, like pilgrim blind, 

Or traveller lost, the path I tread. 
Life's golden vistas lade behind, 

And brooding clouds before me spread. 

Uncertain, lonely, hopeless now, 

I miss thy sympathy, thy song. 
Thy hand to smooth my aching brow, 

Thy little strength, that seemed so strong! 
How beautiful thou wast ! the stars 

Less tender looked from sinless skies 
On Eve, through Eden's golden bars. 

Than 1 on thee with love's proud eyes. 



276 POETS OF NEW HAMF8HIBE. 

If I, in passing dream have thought 

To heal the woes thy parting made, 
The vain assay was dearl}' bought, 

And denser round me grew tlie shade 
Tliat shade may never Uf'ted be, 

From off my soul's serene desire, 
Till freed, my soul ma}- fly to thee. 

Where thou dost sit in soft attire. 



NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Hail, land of the Mountain Dominion ! 

Uplifting thy crest to the day. 
Where the eagle is bathing his pinion 

In clouds that are rolling away. 
O, say, from the Pilgrim descended 

Who trampled on Albion's crown, 
Shall we, by thy cataracts splendid, 

Refuse thee a wreath of renown — 
A wreath of renown from th}^ evergreen bough. 
Entwined with the oak that adorneth t\\j brow ? 

What though, on the mountains that bore us, 

The fern in her loneliness waves ? 
Our forefathers tilled them before us. 

And here will we dwell by their graves ; 
And beloved b}' thy pure-hearted daughters. 

Ever true to the brave and the free. 
We'll drink of the gush of thy waters, 

That leap in the sun to the sea. 
Huzza to the rocks and glens of the north ! 
Huzza to the torrents that herald them forth ; 

Ye hills, where the tempest hath billowed, 

O, glance to the vales of the sun ! 
Where hearts, on iniquity pillowed. 

Melt not o'er the deeds they have done ! 
Where Slavery's merciless minion. 

Is scourging the slave with his rod. 
While Liberty foldeth her pinion, 

And mournfully murmurs to God ; 
Where the dew on the flower, and the mist on the flood. 
With voices that startle, cry, "Blood ! brother, blood !" 

Thank God, that the scourge and the fetter 

Have never dishonored thy flag ! 
And, but for thy shame that the debtor 



JOHN QUINCY ADAMS WOOD. 



Is dragged from his home on the crag, 
Th}' fearless and puritan spirit 

Might speak with a cry of disdain, 
To tlie valleys whose children inherit 
The slave in his collar and chain ! 
Let the woes of the bondman dissolve thee no more, 
Till thy bolts are withdrawn on the penniless poor. 

Peace to us is evermore singing 

Her songs on thy mountains of dew, 
While still at our altars are swinging 

The swords that our forefathers drew. 
But O, may we never unsheath them 

Again where the carnage awaits, 
But to our descendants bequeath them 

To hang upon Liberty's gates. 
Encircled with garlands, as blades that were drawn 
By the hosts of the Loi'd, that have conquered and gone. 

All hail to thee, Mountain Dominion ! 

Whose flag on the cloud is unrolled, 
Where the eagle is straining his pinion. 

And dipping his plumage in gold. 
We ask for no hearts that are truer, 

No spirits more gifted than thine, 
No skies that are warmer or bluer. 

Than dawn on thy hemlock and pine. 
Ever pure are the breezes that herald thee forth, 
Green land of my father ! thou Rock of the North ! 



THE BLIND MAN'S EVENING HYMN. 

Set is the sun to rise no more. 

That blazed on Judah's sacred sea, 

And stood in heavenh" splendor o'er 
The Virgin-born of Galilee. 

And cold and dark is Zion's bower, 
And wasted is her purple vine ; 

And gone the Hand whose healing power 
Could re-illume a night like mine. 

Where'er I turn my sightless eyes, 
No meads expand, no valleys bloom ; 

No starry splendor lights the skies. 
No planets travel through the gloom. 



278 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

No more for tne, in waves of light, 

Shall evening blush nor morning break : 

But ever on unending night 

These clouded eyes of mine must wake. 

The hours are brightest when I sleep, 
For in my dreams I see the day ; 

But when I wake, in shadows deep, 
The dear delusion fades away. 

But He who healed the withered eye, 
And gave it light on Zion Hill — 

In every breeze that whispers by, 
I hear his passing footsteps still : 

I hear Jthem in the flowing stream, 

And in the fragrance-breathing bough ; 

At noon, or when night's dewy beam 
Is bathing nature's sleeping brow. 

I hear them in the vernal shower, 
And in the tempest's far retreat, 

Behind the clouds that round me lower, 
I hear the Saviour's passing feet ! 

Dear Lord ! impatient, when for me. 
Death waves his downy sable plume. 

Then I, released shall come to thee, 
And thou these e3'es wilt re-illume. 



Julia ^. a. amootr. 

Mrs. J. A. A. Woorl is a native of New London. She was thoroughly educated at 
the academy in that town and in the Cliarlestown (Mass.) Seminary. In 1849 she 
was married to William Henry Wood, a lawyer, and brother of J. Q. A. Wood. 
For two years they resided in Greensbury, Ky., when they removed to Sauk Kapids, 
Minn., where Mr. Wood was appointed U. S." Receiver of Public Mouej's. Here he 
established a weekly newspaper, the Sunk tiapid^ New Era, his wife editing the 
literary department. She published in this paper a series of sketches, which were 
read with avidity, entitled, "Life in the Woods." Her first contribution In prose, 
from her new home in Minnesota, appeared in Arthur's Home Gazette, unrler the 
head of "Letters from the far West." She has also been author of several books, 
among which may be mentioned : "The heart of Myrrha Lake, or into the Light of 
Catholicit3';" "Brown House of Dulfield;" "Story of Annette;" and "Basil and 
Beatrice." She has written many poems of much beauty and merit, and, in the 
"Poets and Poetry of Minnesota,'"' a book published in 1864, she occupies a promi- 
nent place. Her husband died in 1870, and she has become, "in all sincerity and 
honesty of heart, a convert to the Roman Catholic Church." 



LEGEND OF THE WILLOW. 

Asked Ma}' the child, with e^-e aglow. 

As, thoughtful, she the tree surveyed, 
Why doth the willow droop so low, 



JULIA A. A. WOOD. 279 

As if it were with sorrow weighed, 
As if some secret, heav}- woe 
Upon its inmost heart were laid ? 

'Tis said that once this tree, m}- child, 

Its slender branches upward threw 
Like other trees to catch the mild, 

Sweet breath of morn, and twilight dew, 
But that there came a storm so wild 

It rent with grief the willow through. 

Ere Jesus unto Calvar}' went. 

Mocked and derided by the throng. 
His captors, wickedly intent 

To do our Lord the utmost wrong. 
Scourged Him until the ground was sprent 

With blood that followed rod and thong. 

These rods, 'tis said, w-ere braided boughs 

Torn from the willow's tender side, 
And when all nature was convulsed. 

She drooped so low her shame to hide ; 
She could not bear that she had helped 

To slay our Lord, the crucified ! 

And so through all the lapsing years. 

Her sorrowing form doth ne'er uprise 
To embrace the balmj' atmosphere. 

Or breathe the blessings of the skies, 
While ever the repentant tears 

Flow downward as from drooping eyes. 

Do thou a lesson learn, my child, 

From this sad story of the tree — 
Grieve ever that the undefiled 

Was slain b}^ sinners, such as thee ; 
Strive to be patient, meek and mild, 

And full of sweet humility-. 



LINES FOR ASH WEDNESDAY. 

The holy season now hath come, 
The time for prayer and fast, 

O ma3' I spend it dearest Lord, 
As though it were my last. 

For forty days our IModel kept 
His fast in desert lone ; 



280 POETS OF JVEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Upon the dewy ground he slept, 
His pillow but a stone. 

"As I have done, do ye," he said 
When near his Passion came : 

We love thy word, O dearest Lord 
All we who bear thy name. 

On this most solemn church-da}^ morn 
We kneel with love and trust 

And on our brows the sign receive 
That we are of the dust. 

.Upon the brow a double sign ; 

The ashes of decay ; 
In form of cross to signify 
We rise to endless day. 

Dear Lord, before thine altar now 

I offer heart and soul ; 
Imprint on these, as on m}' brow. 

The seal of thy control. 

And never may my erring feet 
Far from th}- dear cross stray, 

But may I with a love complete 
Th}- sweet behests obe3\ 



iHarb IE. Mm, 

Mis3 Blair was born in Holderness, Jan. 15, 18-24. Her father, the late Hon. Wal- 
ter Blair, removed to Plymoiitli when she was a cliild, and tliere she received 
lier early education. The greater part of her life has been spent in teaching; at 
first in the common anil higli scliools of lier native state, and later, in Massachu- 
setts, at Bradford Academy, Abbott Academy, Andover, Wlieaton Seminary, Nor- 
ton, and for the last seventeen years in a private scliool for young ladies in Boston. 
Since her return from Eiirope in 1874, she has given lectures on tlie History of 
Art in Wellesley College and other schools. 



FELLOWSHIP IN SUFFERING. 

'That I may know Him and tlie fellowslup of His sufferings."— Phil. 3 : 10. 

Humbl}^, while my soul doth prove 
Sweetest jo3's of pardoning love. 
Still, my Saviour, doth it 3-earn 
Love's deep mjstery to learn ; 
In the shadow of thy cross 
Counting earthh- gain but loss. 
Breathing still its fervent plea 
For a closer life with thee, 
B}' that high and hoi}' thing 
Fellowship in suffering. 



MARY E. BLAIR. 281 



O my Lord, the Crucified, 
Who for loA'^e of me hast died, 
Mould me b}"^ tii}' living breath 
To the likeness of thy death. 
While the thorns thy brow entwine, 
Let no flower-wreath rest on mine. 
In th}' hands the cruel nail, 
Blood-sweat on thy forehead pale, 
Clasp me to tii}' wounded side, 
O my Lord, the Crucified. 

Hands love-clasped through charmed hours, 

Feet that press tlie bruised flowers, 

Is there nought for you to dare 

That ye may His signet wear? 

In this easy, painless life. 

Free from struggle, care, and strife, 

Ever on mj- doubting breast 

Lies the shadow of unrest ; 

This no path that Jesus trod ; 

Can the smooth way lead to God ? 

But when chastening stripes descend, 
Welcoming as friend doth friend, 
Thy dear tokens. Lord, I knovr. 
And to thee unerring go. 
Blessed tears flow warm and free, 
Thou dost love me, even me ; 
Pomp and ease and praise of men, 
All are loathed and scorntid then, 
Since nn* Lord, m^' Love, hath died 
Mocked and scourged and crucified. 

By the agon}- and pain 
Of the torture-stricken brain, 
By the riches of thy love. 
Let not suffering barren prove. 
Pledge and emblem 'twould remain 
Of the dark and sullen pain, 
Where nor love, nor good, doth live, 
And the blessed word, Forgive 
Comes not, with its subtle art, 
Softening, healing any heart. 

In the little islet, time. 
Of eternity sublime. 
Standing on the sloping brink, 
Let me of thy chalice drink, 



282 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Be baptized with thy baptism, 

And be ci'owned with th_v love-chrism ; 

Slain with thee in darkest hour, 

Feel thy resurrection's power, 

Till where thou art, I may be, 

Perfected, dear Lord, with thee. 



LOVE IS DEAD. 

Soul of mine that walked in glory, 

Garlanded with light and song, 
Mns^d thou but one sad story. 

Manifold in pain and wrong? 
In the dull, dead universe. 
Hearing onl}^ the great curse, 

Love, Love is dead. 

Sun, the Titan world-caressing. 

Thy great living heart of love 
Throbs no more with J03' and blessing 

In thy ray less courts above. 
And the light, th}' gushing voice, 
Sings not now, Rejoice, rejoice. 

Since Love is dead. 

Thou, the vates, the inspirer. 

Myriad- crowned and regal Night, 

Tuning tl\y immortal lyre, 

Thj^ deep soul hath felt the blight, 

And thy many voices wail, 

And thy starry watch-fires fail. 

Love, Love is dead. 

Thou, dear Earth, the jo^'ful mother, 

Motherl}', that lovedst all. 
Is there none, or son or brother. 

O'er thy corse to spread the pall ? 
Oh the cloud on all things fair, 
Death and silence everywhere. 

Now Love is dead. 

Ye that from the great earth-altar. 

Breathe sweet incense, bright-robed flowers, 
Minstrel winds that may not falter, 

Harping to the eternal hours. 
By 3'our soul of sweetness fled. 
Know ye with a shudder dread 

That Love is dead. 



MABY E. BLAIB. 283 



Streams that smiled and danced before us, 

Hoary ocean, singing rill, 
Yours the surging anthem-chorus 

That all time and space doth fill : 
Now ye all move dark aud slow 
To one mighty dirge of woe, 

Love, Love is dead. 

Friends, sweet friends, ah vain ideal, 
Since j'e are not, and but seem. 

Love alone is true and real ; 

All things else are but a dream. 

In my heart the yew trees wave, 

And the flowers smell of the grave. 

Sweet Love is dead. 

Turn not thus on me 3-our faces, 
Pictures are the}' and no more ; 

Gone are all your tender graces, 
Ye that loved in days of yore, 

What are we but phantoms dread 

When our being's soul is fled. 

And Love is dead? 

How the cold rain droppetli ever 

On the dull eternal shore : 
By the black and sullen river, 

We are orphans ever more. 
In a world whence Love hath fled, 
God himself is gone or dead. 

Great Love is dead. 

Then I saw an angel vision. 

Where I sat within the tomb, 
Sweetest light and joy elysian 

Suddenly did bud and bloom.* 
"Mary," whom I wept as dead, 
Tenderly He spake and said, 

Not Love is dead. 

When I knew him, the Arisen, 

Love immortal. Love divine, 
The dark walls of tlie earth-i)rison. 

Planet-like, did sing and shine, 
And the dreary Hades bloomed 
Glory-crowned and J^ove illumed ; 

Not dead, not dead. 



284 POETS OF NEW HAMP8HIBE. 



jfannie IB. J^oster. 



Miss Foster was born in Portsmouth in 1824. Her father, Robert Foster, was ed- 
itor and publisher of tlie Christian Herald. Her first poem was written at the a^e 
of twelve years. In 1858, a collection of her poems Avas published under the title 
of "Pebbles of Poetry." She has travelled in Europe. Her present residence is 
in Boston. 



THE POET'S GRAVE. 

Sweet Spring approached with fauy feet, 
And gladsome smiles she wore ; 

But why comes not her poet forth 
To greet her as of yore ? 

She sought him in the fields and groves, 

Along the murmuring rills ; 
And sent her birds with sweetest songs 

To lure him to the hills ; 

Then strewed around her fairest flowers. 

And bid the perfumed breeze 
Awake sweet melody for him 

In all the forest trees. 

The winding brooks ran here and there, 

In eveiy calm retreat, 
To see if they a trace could find 

Of their lost poet's feet. 

At length a wandering zephyr caught 

The loved, familiar sound 
Of music, hovering just above 

A sweet, low, grass}' mound. 

Its tones were so refined and pure. 
That mortals scarce might hear ; 

And told, that, with the poet now, 
'Twas spring-time all the year. 

Then gentle Spring, with showers of tears. 
The sweet, low mound did lave ; 

And dear forget-me-nots sprang up 
All o'er the poet's grave. 



Geo. F. Kent, a young man of rich promise, and voungest son of George Kent, was 
born at Concord, February 4, 18-24. He was fitted for College, and passed two years 
at Dartmouth, when he left for a more active life, and spent four or five years in a 
bookstore in New York; Citv, and in Boston in mercantile l)usiuess. Being unmar- 
ried, and possessed of a spirit of adventure, he was one of the early pioneers to 



GEOBGE FREDEBICK KENT. 285 

California in 1849, where he continiieri in the mining region, with varying fortune, 
till 1858. His return home in the Spring of that year was daily expectc'l, wlien the 
sad news came of his death, in February, at Rich Bar.'on Feather Hiver. Mr. Kent's 
writings, in prose and poetry, were somewhat numerous for the productions of so 
young a man — were of niucli merit and promise, and, wlien not written for the 
privacy of liindred and friends, were mostly for newspapers, and the "Knicker- 
bocker" magazine. 



TO A CALIFORNIA PINE, 

SUPPOSED TO BE THREE HUNDRED FEET HIGH. 

Who that has gazed upon th}- verdure bright 

AVould fane^' thou wert old, and that thj- dress 

Of purest green has been through centuries 

Unchanged in storm or sunshine — save as light 

And shade, tempest and calm, might vary it? 

Thy heart is sound — tli}' limbs and bark no less ; 

And yet, for years I hardh- dare to guess, 

Thou hast been growing to this dizzy height ! 

Hast thou the secret of perpetual youth? 

Or is it as we sometimes see in life. 

Where men have kept their purity and truth? — 

Years pass, daj'S visit them with sorrow rife — 

But still their hearts keep young, and they can stand. 

In age, the firmest, noblest of the land. 



TO A LOCOMOTIVE ENGINE. 

Swift treader of the path man marketh out, — 
Cramped giant, on whose might}- limbs is thrown 
A power far more relentless than thine own. 
Thou art most like thy master ! — though without 
His wondrous strength a giant will to flout ; 
Yet art thou like him, when he stands alone 
Where the vast sea of life makes ceaseless moan, 
And hears the billows to each other shout. 
Within thy iron breast there lurks a breath, 
Quiet, but dreadful as the spirit-power 
AVhich guides man's passions in an evil hour, 
And onl}- yields its influence to Death : 
Like him, now slave, then tyrant; thy control 
Is bounded bv an over-maslering soul. 



SONNET TO SPRING. 

The Earth has long been sleeping, and her dreams 
Have been most wild and fearful, such as make 
The boldest tremble — visions that would shake 



286 POETS OF NEW HAMP8HIBE. 

■ 1 

Firm iron nerves ! with dreadful shrieks and screams 

The winter wind has haunted lakes and streams ; 

But now all nature seems again awake. 

The clouds look softer, and begin to take 

New forms of beaut^^ in the morning beams 

Of the warm sun. The first sound that the Plarth 

Heard on awaking was a bird's small voice, 

Like childhood's prattle in a mother's ear, 

So soft, so tremulous, and 3'et so clear 

That in her inmost heart she did rejoice 

O'er all blithe things to which she'd given birth. 



RAIN IN APRIL. 

The gentle murmur of the dripping rain 
Comes like a strain of music to iny ear ; 

It is the blithest time of all the 3'ear 
To me, this early spring-time, when again 
Tlie barren trees, and the long covered plain 
Begin to gather beauties far and near, 
Culling fresh flowers to strew upon the bier 
Of the departed winter. Not in vain 
These buds and blossoms of the spring come forth ; 
Like the first fruits of genius the}- give sign 
Of a large hoard of wealth and hidden worth 
That, like rich jewels buried in a mine, 
Is lock'd within the summer's treasur}-. 
All shrouded from the gaze of careless eye. r 



A BROTHER'S PLEA. 

brother, let us seek that roof 
Where, when we were two simple boys. 

We kept all future fear aloof 

And minded nought but present joys ; 
It stands upon the hill-side yet. 

And bids us, with its shelter find 
A refuge where we may forget 

Unloving tones and looks unkind, 

1 cannot now return alone, — 

For, seared as is my aching heart. 
It unto yours so close has grown 

That 'twould be almost death to part. 
The cord which knit us once was free. 

And, trusting in its seeming length, 



GEORGE FREDEBICK KENT. 287 

We frolicked on right joyousl}', 

Unmindful of its silken strength ; 
But as the spider draws his thread 

To his own breast when danger's nigh, 
So we, our earl}' safeguards fled, 

Draw closer to each heart that tie. 

M3' brother, think of the old time ! 

And let your memory' wake again 
Its blissful hours, like a sweet chime 

Oi distant bells : 'tis not in vain 
Thus to recall the happ}' past 

And bring its dear scenes back to view, — 
Indeed they were too fair to last, 

Yet while the}* lived they were most true, — 
And truth is such a stranger now 

We may not scorn her simplest guise ; 
Her earliest pleadings, O allow. 

And look again through those clear e^'es ! 
The world, I know, can never wean 

Your spirit from its love of truth, — 
But do you feel that sense so keen 

As in your trusting, guileless youth ? 
We are not old by count of 3'ears — 

Not 3'oung, if sad thouglits ma}- speed life. 
Then let us haste to shut our ears 

On this vast Babel of wild strife. 
Dear brother ! take my hands in yours 

And lead me back to childish joys. 
Before the world's vain show allures 

Us to forget that we were boys. 



THE VOICE OF PEACE. 

In the tempest's loudest howling 

Undertones we hear ; 
In a vex'd child's angry scowling 

Smiles oft linger near. 
In the plant where thorns ma}^ wound 3'ou, 

Search and you'll lind honey, 
Ever}' close-locked heart around you 

Opens wide to mone}'. 

So the world tliough full of waring. 

Has an ear ibi- peace ; 
Voices breathe through all this jarring, 

Never more to cease, — 



288 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

And the theme of these sweet lispers 

Is the love of all : 
Hear ye not their gentle whispers, 

Soft as dew-drops, fall? 

Nation soon shall talk with nation 

Like two fireside friends, 
When War's dreadfnl desolation 

And blind fury ends. 
War is transient — Peace remaineth 

Constant to forgive : 
Man with blood his hands now staineth 

Hands die, but hearts live. 

From the valley a mist creepeth 

At the moonlight hour, 
And the dull earth while it sleepeth 

Owns its magic power ; 
Words in lowly places spoken, 

Yet ma}^ wake a feeling 
That shall heal a faith now broken — 

Higher faith revealinsr. 



Ndjcmiaf) SISJrigit. 

Nehemiah Wright was born in Iloldeniess village, now Ashland, February 20, 
1824. He was partly littod for cDllfge at I'lyniDuth and New Hampton academies. 
In 1842 he went tolllinois, linished his ])re|)aratory studies, and entered Illinois 
College at Jacksonville, in 1844. Alter graduation he read medicine with his father in 
liis native town, and received the degree of M. D. from Rush Medical College, Chi- 
cago. In 1850 he settled in the practice of medicine in Chatham, 111., where he is 
likely to remain, "going about doing good." His lite has been one of activity, de- 
voted to Physic, Philosophy, Politics, and Poetry. In 1876 he read a poem at the 
reuuion of the Phi Alpha Society of llliuois College, a society of which he was 
one of the original founders. His son, Charles D. Wriglit, M. D., is now associated 
with him in the practice of medicine. 



MY SPIRIT HOME. 

I am alone, no one is near ; the daylight hours are past. 
And, with her sable curtain, night is shrouding nature fast; 
And spirit forms around me move ; their whispers speak them near ; 
They call me, glad would I obey,''0 come, thy home's not here." 

Sweet visions now of other days, when friends and hopes were 

mine, 
And youthful fancy painted bright each scheme and fond design ; 
Then flowers above my pathwa}' grew — those flowers, now dead 

and sere. 
To me with warning voices speak, "Thy home, it is not here." 



HENBY W. HEBBICE. 289 

The twilight's past, its spirits fled, and darkness wraps the whole ; 
But deeper gloom than that of night is wrapped around my soul. 
The voices of departed joys now fall on memory's ear ; 
United all, one voice the}- speak, "Thy spirit's home's not here." 

The stars that gem the sparkling dome, the}' whisper peace to me, 
And tell me that I have a home be3'ond life's darkened sea ; 
And though on earth no friends I find, yet kindred souls there are 
In that bright world, far, far awa}' — my spirit's home is there. 

O spirits of departed friends ! too good, too pure to die, 
Come down npon the moon's pale beam, and hover round me nigh. 
How soft and sweet their voices ring npon the evening air ; 
Their music seems the notes of heaven ; m}' spirit's home is there. 

Then my own heart, nnresting still, is seeking to be free 
And plume its wings for fairer lands that seem so near to me. 
Then haste, dull life, why wait so long, beset with grief and care? 
O quickly seek the happy fields — my spirit's home is there. 



H. W. Herrick was born in Hopkinton in 1824. He spent his early life in Concord 
and Nasliua until about twenty years of age, at which iierioil lie settk'<l in New York 
city, as fin ciiLcraver and designer, where lie reniainid twcntv-oiu' years. During 
more than liall' that period he was employed as an artist by the Tract Society, Har- 
per antl Jinithers, anj.1 the American l!ank Note t'onipany". He was also connected 
with the New York Si luml of Dcsijjnfdr Wcimen, for six years, during the latter 
part of which he was i)rincipal teacher and manager. In 18').5"he returned to this ."^tate 
and settleii in Manchester, where he has since resided, employing his time on book and 
magazine illustrations, anrl in water color painting. He is'tlie author of a work on 
the latter art, lately published in New York. 



THE SPIDER'S WEB. 

Upon the grass and heather spread, 

One pleasant summer's morn, 
A spider's fair and slender thread 

From leaf to leaf was borne. 

Along its glittering fabric hung, 

The earl}' dew-drops shine. 
Like tiny pearls, together strung. 

Upon a fairy line. 

From point to point, with wond'rous grace, 

With skill, and beauty too. 
Each thread was fitted to its place, 

In net-work fair and true. 



290 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Wise builder ! He who made tliee live 
And taught thee wond'rous things, 

Hath said thy work a place should have 
In palaces of kings. 

And by Him, too, thy tissue frail, 
An emblem true is given ; 

That hopes of hypocrites shall fail 
To give them joys of heaven. 



THE HUMBLE BEE. 

A humble bee was buzzing round 

One pleasant summer's da}'. 
And in our garden fair, he found, 

The blossoms bright and gay : 
With dainty tongue, and busy wing, 
From flower to flower was wandering. 

With drowsy hum, in flower's bell. 

He sought his forage fair ; 
He dived him to its honey cell. 

And rolled in sweetness there ; 
A dew-drop served of drink instead, 
And there he dined on honey -bread. 

It chanced that Tottie, playing there, 

Saw humble-bee go by. 
And in his child's simplicity 

Mistook it for a fl}-. 
Not knowing that such busy flies 
Have stings for all their enemies. 

The prett}' thing he grasped with glee, 

But quickly did he get. 
Thrust in his hand, by humble-bee, 

Its needle bayonet. 
With stamp and cries he runs to me. 
With bitter plaints of humble-bee. 

O heed, my boy, the lesson well, 

And let tbis truth abide. 
That danger lurks where pleasures dwell, 

And stings in ambush hide. 
No lasting joy earth's folly brings. 
And sin, like humble-bee, hath stings. 



GEOBGE NELSON BRYANT. 291 

THE TOMB OY STARK. 

No trappings of state, their bright honors unfolding, 
No gorgeous display, marks the place of th}- rest ; 

But the granite points out where thy bod}' lies mouldering, 
And the wild-rose is shedding its sweets o'er th}' breast. 

The zephj-rs of evening shall sport with the willow, 
And pla}- through the grass, where the flowerets creep, 

While the thouglits of the brave, as he bends o'er ihy pillow, 
Shall hallow the spot of the hero's last sleep. 

As from g\oxy and honor to death thou descended, 

Twas meet thou shouldst lie, b^' the Merrimac's wave ; 

It was well thou shouldst sleep 'mongst the hills thou defended, 
And take th}' last rest in so simple a grave. 

There forever thou'lt sleep, and though ages roll o'er thee, 
And cruml)le the stone o'er thy ashes to earth, 

The sons of the free shall with reverence adore thee. 
The pride of the mountains, that gave thee thy birth. 



CKeorge Nelson ISrgant 

Rev. George N. Bry.ant is a brother of Rov. .J. C. Bryant, whose poems are fonnd 
elsewhere in this volume. Ho was born in New Boston, Slay '21, l.Si4. In 1849, after 
completing a course oftheolojiical study, he entered the gospel ministry in the New 
nampshire conference of the .Mrtlmdist church, and has served with ucceptability 
(tome of the prominent chiu'ches of that denomination in the State. 



EVENINGS AT HOME. 

It is not that m^- feelings are cold, 

Or dead to society's charms ; 
Nor m}' spirit too timid to hold 

Its course in the midst of alarms ; 
Yet from business, labor and noise, 

I love in the twilight to come 
Where rivaliy never annoys. 

And spend cheery evenings at home. 

There's a time when my spirits unbend 

From the drudgery life has imposed ; 
When the dews of affection descend 

On gardens of pleasure enclosed. 
There's a place discontent enters not, 

Where hatred and strife never come ; 
Such a place is ju}' own humble cot, 

That time the sweet cvcninj's at home. 



292 POETS OF NEW HAMP8HIBE. 

The brilliant saloon tempts me not, 

Not dance of the revellers gay ; 
For their pleasures too dearly are bought 

And pass like a shadow away. 
Oft their devotees sink in despair, 

Like mariners 'neath the white foam, 
NeA^er tasting the comforts the}' share 

"Who spend brighter evenings at home. 

It is said there is joy in the wine 

The spirits despondent to cheer ; 
That the play and soft music combine 

To please both the mind and the ear : 
Let them follow these phantoms who will. 

And far for such jo3's widely roam, 
I'm unchanged in my purposes still. 

For richest are evenings at home. 

There is music and beauty and wealth, 

In the realm of my own little cot 
Where my children are romping in health. 

And dear wife upbraideth me not. 
I grudge not the wealth or the woes 

Endured 'neath the elegant dome. 
Nor will suffer the malice of foes, 

To mar my sweet evenings at home. 



I AM THE DOOR. 

I hear thee say, "I am the door," 
Saviour, and yet m}^ feet are sore 
With wanderings long ; m}^ garments torn ; 
Wounded my flesh with cruel thorn. 

"I am the door ; enter by me." 
O that I now could fl}'^ to thee ; 
Could taste the dear delights of those. 
Who safel}' in thy love repose. 

But night comes o'er me cheerless, cold ; 
The shepherd safe within the fold 
Gathers his sheep. Unfriended I, 
A wandering sheep, where shall I fly? 

Athwart the gloom fierce lightnings flash ; 
On startled ears the thunders crash ; 
The storm across the heather howls. 
The hungry wolf for raven prowls. 



GEORGE NELSON BRYANT. 293 

"I am the door." Yes Lord I hear, 
Still n\v i:)oor heart is rent with fear : 
That door of hope is for thine own, 
While I to stray am sadly prone. 

"If any enter he shall live. 
Shall rest, protection, food receive." 
If any? — O that blissful sound 
Brings comfort in the gloom profound. 

Indulgent Lord, that open door 
To enter, I delay no more ; 
And coming now, O jo_y ! O bliss ! 
The Saviour sweetly calls me his. 

Now rage the storm ; now thunders roll ; 
Raven the wolf; my peaceful soul 
Shall yield to siii and fear no more, 
Secure in Christ the living door. 



HYMN TO THE MOUNTAINS. 

Ye mountains great and tall, 
In majesty that stand, 
AVhile empires rise and fall 
As billows on the strand ; 
Each lofty height, each deep profound. 
Is with an awful grandeur crowned ; 
And each presents to us a holy shrine, 
A chosen dwelling of the great Divine. 

As insects of a day 
Up 3'our rough sides we creep, 
With slow and painful waj- : 
Or from the craggy steep, 
Upon the nether world we gaze 
"With new delight and notes of praise ; 
And God, who reared these everlasting piles. 
From highest heaven, accepts our praise and smiles. 

No voice nor speech is 3'ours, 
No acts your worship speak. 
These soft, expressive powers 
Are given to the weak : 
And jet there seems in every stone. 
And cliff, and gorge, and valley lone, 
Persuasive power to lead our tlioughts to God. 
More than in courts by thoughtless thousands trod. 



294 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

Your lessons, grand mid deep, 
Strongly our minds impress — 
Our erring hearts shall keep 
When bus}' cares oppress : 
And your stability proclaim, 
God now and eA'ermore the same ; 
The good man's firm and never failing trust, 
When e'en j-our granite walls crumble to dust. 



Otaroline 3E(Uai)ct!) Jcnneisg. 

Miss Jenness, the oldest child of Richai'd Jeimess, a gentleman prominently 
known in Portsmouth, in business, financial and sodal circles, was born in Deer- 
fleld, August 22, 1824. In 1828 her father removed to Portsmouth, where Elizabeth 
lived until her death, whicli occurred December 1, 1857. The writings of tliis lady, 
with a memoir, printed for private circulation in lSo8, shotv her ability as a proso 
writer, as well as her accomplished style of poetry. 



REPOSE. 

On downy pillows lain, she pvajs : 

Her soft eyes ope and close again ; 
And, unto her unfinished prayer. 

The angels say the glad "Auien" ; 
While, half-unclasped her languid hands, 

She sleeps with such a gentle art, 
That scarce her heaving limbs betray 

The quiet heaving of her heart. 
So quick asleep, not hidden quite, 
Her lovely limbs peep to the light 
The envious down would hide from sight. 

Her golden hair curls round her cap ; 

And, as her ros3' lips unclose, 
The eas}' breathings falter forth 

Like perfumes loath to leave a rose ; 
And, dimly bright, the lashes seem 

To steal light from her e3'es in mirth, 
Or as some homesick beams, returned 

Unto the suns that gave them birth ; 
While, gathered in her snowy breast, 
Life and the Loves together rest : 
How could they leave so sweet a nest? 

The air is sweet ; for dying flowers 

Send their last breatli to scenes like this 

And, sighing, blows the love-sick wind, 
Trembling to meet her with a kiss : 

While, with a faint and dreamy light, 



CABOLINE ELIZABETH JENNE8S. 295 

The lamp half shows, half hides her face, 
As night were, by itself illumed. 

Burning to see her lovely face ; 
And worthless Fancy flieth thence, 
"Where she lies sleeping, with shut sense, 
Like the child-goddess, Innocence. 



FEAR NOT. 

I will not fear, I will not fear ; 

For He is b}' my side : 
In pastures fair He leadeth me, 

In pastures green and wide. 
And b}- the rivers calm and cleai'. 

And wiicre bright waters roll : 
I will not fear, I will not fear ; 

His strength is in my soul. 

He watcheth me amid the storm, 

And on the raging sea ; 
His guidance is ni}' steadfast hope, 

When earthl}' hopes ma}' flee. 
I weep no more for grief or woe. 

And I will fear no ill : 
He loveth me, He feedeth me : 

My God is with me still. 



THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH. 

The first discoverers of America lielieved that there wns a fountain In Florida, 
which possessed the miraculous power of restoring j'outh to the aged. 

We are travelling on to the Fountain of Youth ; 

Yet, brothers, staj' awhile. 
And dream once more of our sunn}- land. 

Where the laughing vineyards smile : 
Then our steps we'll speed, though wear}' and faint, 

To the dim and distant shore. 
Where we deem that the clouds of sorrow and grief 

Will darken our eyes no more. 

For they tell us, that there, in that radiant land. 

That beautiful land of dreams. 
The summer and sunshine do never pass 

From the blue and silvery streams ; 
And a dim and strange mysterious strength 

On the si)arkling rills has lain ; 
For the spirit of God has breathed on the waves. 

And they bring us our }outh again. 



296 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

Then speed, let us speed, to the glorious straud 

Where the gems lie thick like dew ; 
And bathe in the fount and the murmuring rills 

That bring us our youth anew : 
For our life is a cold and weary thing 

In this mansion-house of woe ; 
But pain will flee on the emerald banks, 

Where the lulling waters flow. 

But they never found the Fountain of Youth 

On that lonely and lovely shore. 
And their wasted joys and their rifled gems 

Came back to their souls no more : 
Yet the}' found a stream of enduring strength, 

Whose beauty can never fade. 
More bright than the rivers of light that flow 

In the wilderness' gloom and shade. 

For their faith grew firm, and their trust more deep, 

In the spirit of God above ; 
And their hearts were filled with a holier hope, 

A higher and purer love. 
Their souls were strong, for the}' knew that their tears 

Had not been given in vain ; 
And they found the Fountain of Youth on high, 

In the Eden land again. 



Mrs. Whitney was born in Boston, Mass., Sept. 15, 1824. Ilcr father's name was 
Enoch Train, a well-known shipping merchant, ami the foumier and proprietor of 
the lirst line of large regular packet sliips iK-twecn I'.oston :ind Liverpool. Her 
mother, whose name she bears, was Adeline Duttcni of UillsbDrongh, and she was 
the eldest child. A large part of Mrs. Whitney's life has been spent in this State, 
ller mother's native town was early associated with her childhood. In after years 
INIrs. Wliitney's summer liome was in Alstead with Mrs. Gibson. She has been 
much among the White Mountains, in difl'erent parts, and altogether has spent 
more time and happier in New Hampshire than anywhere else away from her 
permanent home, which has been in Milton, Mass., ever since her marriage in 1843. 
Her husband is Mr. Seth D. Whitney, son of Moses Whitney, whose long and 
active life was spent as a resident of that town. The old family home is on Milton 
Hill, and is still in possession of the family. 



OUR HOME-MAKER. 

On the death of Mrs. Gibson of Alstead, at whose home the writer was a fre- 
quent guest. 

Where the mountains slope to the westward. 

And their purple chalices hold 
The new-made wine of the sunset, — • 

Crimson, and amber, and gold ; — 



ADELINE D. T. WHITNEY. 297 

In the old, wide-opened doorway, 

With the elm-boughs overliead, — 
The house all garnished behind her, 

And the plentiful table spread ; — 

She has stood to welcome our coming, 

"Watching our upward climl), 
In the sweet June weather that brought us 

Oh, man}' and many a time ! 

To-da}', in the gentle splendor 

Of the early summer noon, — 
Perfect in sunshine and fragrance, 

Although it is hardly June, — 

Again is her doorway opened, 

And the house all garnished and sweet ; 

But she silentl}' waits for our coming, 
And we enter with silent feet. 

A little within she is waiting ; 

Not where she has met us before ; 
For over the pleasant threshold 

She is only to cross once more. 

The smile on her face is quiet, 

And a \\\y is on her breast ; 
Her hands are folded together. 

And the word on her lips is "Rest." 

And 3'et it looks like a welcome. 

For her work is compassed and done ; 
All things are seemly and ready. 

And her summer is just begun. 

It is we who maj- not cross over ; 

Only with song and prayer, 
A little wa}' into the glory 

We may reach as we leave her there. 

But we cannot think of her idle ; 

She must be a home-maker still ; 
God giveth that woik to the angels 

Who fittest the task fulfil. 

And somewhere j'et on the hill tops 

Of the country that hath no pain, 
She will watch in the beautiful doorway 

To bid us welcome again. 



298 POETS OF NEW HAMPSIIIBE. 

TPIE TWO POWERS. 

» Take th}' pen, O prophet ! write. 
Tell the world thy spirit-sight. 
All thy errand swift record, 
Straight from whispers of the Lord ! 
Double edges of his truth, — 
Messages of wrath and ruth, — 
Flash upon men's eyes in words, 
Like the gleam of naked swords ! 

God would save the nations when 
For the sword he sends the pen. 

Warrior, gird thyself with might! 
Bare the blade, and seek the tight ! 
Sin's broad page is crimson writ, 
Crimson now must cancel it. 
Folded is the prophet's scroll ; 
Silence waits within his soul : 
For the warning mercy-call. 
Burns a judgment on the wall. 

When the reckoning is scored 

God's pen is a flaming sword ! 

Write once more, strong scribe, and say 

How they faced that fearful day, 

Quit them righteously and well, 

If they stood, or if they fell : 

Or, if giving half their life 

In the hot and sudden strife. 

Calm the}^ bore the crowning test. 

Rendering in slow pain the rest ! 

In such histories of men. 
Measure still with sword, O pen ! 

Powers of word, and powers of deed, — 
One the anointing, one the need, — 
Still foresay, and still fulfil 
All that grand, mysterious will 
In whose might the peoples move 
To their franchisement above ! 
Sign and stor^' still record 
Straight from purpose of the Lord ! 

His own time he knowcth, when 
He shall lay down sword and pen. 



MTB ON JA3IES HAZEL TINE. 299 

Miron J. Hazcltine, was born in Ilumnc)-, Nov. 13, 1821. In 1^47 lie entered Col- 
lege in Amherst, JIass., but was tbrown out before the completion of the course of 
study by an almost fatal accident in the frymnasinm. On leaving college, since 
which lie has always suffered as a i)artial invalid, lie began the stufly of law 
In Lowell, Mass., where he remained al)out four years. lie then went to New 
York city, and was principal of a classical and select school, where he remained 
about ten years. He was married in IS.").'!, to Miss Hannah M.Bryant, youngest 
daughter of Asa Bryant, who Avas a cousin of the poet William (;. Bryant. For the 
last fourteen years their home has been at "The Larches," Camiitoii Village. Ho 
has been a chess editor for about twenty-eight years, ancl has continuously 
held the chair of Chess on the A>(y York C7 //>;«'?• for "twenty-six years. Many ex- 
cellent poems of his are found in the pages of the Literary American, published lu 
Kew York city, of which the late Geo. P. Quackeubos was editor and proprietor. 



THE AWAKING OF FREEDOM. 

A sonnd has gone forth like the •uinrl.s on tlieir pinions, 

A key-note of terror by tyrants is heard ; 
Fear sits on their sceptres and paled are their minions, 

As at earthquake prognostics, ere nature is stirred. 

But whence their dismay — has war's tocsin alarmed them 
With a call to the field of the soiil-stirring drum? 

Have traitors within, or tlieir own fears disarmed them, 
And must ruin and slaughter, unstriven with, come? 

Ah, no ! 'tis no mightier despot arising, 

With blood and oppression to curse the fair earth, 

That's crushing the weaker, and rivals surprising — 
Ah, no ! 'tis the glad shout of Liberty's birth. 

It rolls o'er the plain, is reechoed by mountains ; 

God's own thunder-trump swells the shout to the sky ; 
The seal of oppression is rent from the fountains 

Of the rights of the people which sparkle on high. 

What wonder, when tyrants perceive their thrones tremble. 
That a cordon of bayonets round them they draw ! 

Yet these but of hope and true safety dissemble. 
For the spear is a bulrush, the sword is a straw ; 

When Freedom divine in her might is awaking. 
And arouses the soul of the brave to be free ; 

When the mass its age-riveted shackles is breaking, 
And to its own dungeons Oppression must flee. 

Proud autocrat, think not thy haughty endeavor 
From thy vast dominions the sound can repel. 

Which Freedom has started ; for swelling forever, 
Its echoes nor ukase nor sabre can quell. 



300 POETS OF NEW HAMP8HIBE. 

When ye with a sword can repel the wild ocean, 
Or the weird Borealis extinguish in night ; 

Then warlike arraj' shall check Liberty's motion, 
And tyrant's decrees quench forever her light. 

The flame is re-kindled on Liberty's altar, 

More pure than for which the old Greek ever died ; 

True hearts and good blades, that can ne'er fail nor falter. 
Are sworn to protect it with God on their side. 



WORDS. 

Charge not all upon thj- brother, 
That he seemeth to deserve ; 

Gentle words may discord smother, 
Fiercest moods of hate unnerve. 

Better far some trifling failing 
Be excused, or softened o'er. 

Than at everj^ error railing, 

Causing hearts to wander more. 

When thy toiling brother pauseth. 
That the ways of life are hard ; 

Oft a word new vigor causeth, 
Hope will brighten, fear discard. 

Mid the noisy, factious forum. 

See the might}^ sage arise ; 
Awe the tumult to decorum, 

By the words his brain supplies. 

In the prostrate, conquered city. 

Lawless, mercenary bands 
Stay, though void of fear or pit}'. 

At their captain's known commands. 

When the storm encompassed Saviour 
His disciples' clamors heard, 

Chiding still their faint behavior. 
Gracious spake the saving word. 

Surely mind controlleth matter, 
Matter, which shall soon decay ; 

Though to dust all bodies scatter, 
Soul remains a heavenl}' ray. 



MIB OX JAMES HAZEL TINE. 301 

\Yhen to heaven the soul returneth, 

Truth and pvogrcss it demands ; 
For seraphic knowledge j-carneth, 

Ever to new heights expands. 

There no book the spirit needeth 

As its medium slow to learn ; 
God and nature free it readcth, 

All its thoughts untrammelled burn. 

But within this clayey dwelling 

Senses are the paths of thought ; 
All the longings in us swelling 

'Neath the chains of time are brought. 

Though the body proves a fetter, 

Life is dark, a toil and bleak ; 
Make it cheerful, till a better 

Death, releasing, bids us seek. 

Frowns and harshness chill the spirit, 

Turn it to its ills again ; 
Bar from S3'mpathy, and sear it 

To the wants and woes of men. 

All our ills are halved by sharing ; 

All our jo^-s are doubled o'er ; 
For thy brother, burden-bearing, 

Have a kindly word in store. 



TO THE SEA. 

(Dedicated to Geo. Payn Quackenbos, LL.D. and wife, embarking for a winter 
voyage.) 

Placid as thou art, O Sea, 

Smiling thus in seeming rest. 

Take upon thy heaving breast 
Treasure, to return to me. 

Shut in caves thy winds, Sea, 
True, in quiet the3''re my dread ; 
All restrained below, o'erhead. 

So my treasure comes to me. 

Treacherous art thou, Sea, 
Smil'st cngulphing still the keel. 
Pleasure nor remoi'se canst feel — 

Is my treasure sate for me ? 



302 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

Well, I dread thy moods, O Sea, 
Keel th}' surface never ploughed, 
Save to chance of tliee a shroud — 

Give m}^ treasure back to me ! 

Sateless is th^- maw, O Sea, 
But, athwart this chosen deck, 
Let no billow's foamy fleck 

Threat m}^ treasure snatched from me. 

Smiles of sky return, O Sea, 
Speed to sunny southern mark 
This so precious Ireiglited bark ; 

So my treasure's kept for me. 

Votive offerings shall, O Sea, 
Great Poseidon's temple grace, 
If, as I these couplets trace, 

Thou my treasure promise me. 

Good ! I see a sign, O Sea, 
Promise, hopeful as our j-outh : 
I receive the welcome truth — 

Come my treasure will to me. 



Hannah M. Bryant was born in New Boston, August 20, 1827. Compelled to leare 
Bchool before fil'teen years of age, her education is mainly such as slie lias obtained 
In intermissions of labor, otld moments, and by close observation. She was mar- 
ried in 1853 to Miron J. Hazeltine. She has been, since the age of nineteen, a con- 
stant contributor to various papers and magaz.ines, and her poems have been wide- 
ly copied and favorably noticed, both in this country and in England. , 



A NORTHERN OCTOBER. 

The morn is clear — from far and near 
The fainting stars now disappear ; 
From eastern skies auroral dyes. 
In deepening colors flush and rise. 

In vallej's deep, where shadows sleep. 
The gathered mists now rise and creep 
O'er mountains wide, whose tops divide 
This earth from heaven whose doors they hide. 

Dark clusters shine amid the vine. 
For Bacchus' feast a tempting sign ; 
The creaking wain, with golden grain. 
Comes slowly winding through the lane. 



HA NNAH BE YANT HAZEL TIKE. 303 

The ai^ple fair, the peach and pear, 
Pomona's gifts, are everywhere ; 
All through the vale the squashes trail, 
And pumpkins glow in yellow mail. 

The fields once green, the hills between, 
Now sparkle in their frosty sheen ; 
But brown and sere, the woods appear 
In mourning garments for the year. 

The sun's mild rays, through smoky haze, 
Betoken Indian summer days ; 
While soft and bright, with golden light 
The harvest moon illumes the night. 

On hill, in run, for gain or fan. 
Is heard the sportsman's ringing gun : 
Silent, alone, b}- swirl or stone 
The angler's fly is deftlj' thrown. 

The autumn breeze, with riven leaves. 
Brings pattering nuts from chestnut trees ; 
From beeches bare, now here, now there. 
The squirrels winter food jjrepare. 

As wanes the j-ear, so disappear 
The ties of earth that bind us here ; 
Till, one by one, our duties done. 
We rest with life's last settino- sun. 



MORNING, NOON AND NIGHT. 

Morn is for quiet thought ; when the tired brain 

And wearied body, calmed by sweet repose, 
Forget the toil of yesterday, its pain. 

Its blighting woes ; 
And thus refreshed they grasp once more the load. 
And march with boldness on the dusty road. 
Thus may thy life, serene in early morn. 

Fit and prepare thee for the noontide heat ; 
When thou shalt join the ever-moving throngs 

That onward press with busy, restless feet. 
Noon is for steady toil, for anxious care, 

When all our powers of body, will, or mind. 
Are bent to solve the problem, "How to live ;" 

Alas ! few find 
The answer ere their weary course is run, 



304 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

And life is ended nor their labor done. 
See that thy noon, in well-directed course 

Of active duties be in honor passed ; 
Till spent with toil, life's mid-da}" heats all o'er, 

Thou shalt find rest in calm content at last. 

Night is for dreams, for love ; our labor o'er 

We seek for rest, for warmth, for grateful cheer ; 

And in the presence of our loved to find 
All that is dear 

Of kindly sympathy, of trust and love. 

That lift the soul to nobler things above. 

Thus may the evening of thy life come on : 

Conscious of time well spent, a course well run. 

When the night closes o'er thee, may'st thou hear 
A Father's welcome in the sweet "Well Done." 



CLOUD PICTURES. 

Dedicated to my little daughter, Alice May Hazeltine, who gave me the idea 
embodied in the poem. 

A soff, balmy night in the summer — 

The sun had just sunk to his rest, 
And trooping to witness his exit 

Came beautiful clouds in the west : 
There were some that were golden and foam}^, 

Like the down on the wing of a bird ; 
And some were in figures fantastic, 

By the breathing of Hesperus stirred. 

From the balconj-'s seat we were watching 

The changes, my children and I, 
When quaint little Alice, the dreamer, 

Exclaimed, "There's a church in the sky !" 
There were towers and turrets and steeple, 

Dome, buttress and gable were there ; 
But while we were looking, it tottered 

And fell, a thin wreck, in the air. 

And now, on the limitless azure, 

Came a swan ; but alas, the poor thing ! 
While we viewed, there was nothing remaining 

But the body and one drooping wing. 
A portrait, with huge Roman features, 

Was slowly unfolded to shape ; 
But progress was backward — the Roman 

Was changed to a mimicking ape. 



JAMES W. BABKEE. 305 



"A bear !" shouted Alice ; and rampant 

Stood Bruin, as if to embrace 
Orion, who, fanc}' could picture, 

Was following close on the chase ; 
But the knife of the hunter, it may be, 

Had struck to the heart of the bear, 
For he parted just back of the shoulder, 

And he, too, dissolved in the air. 

But see, in the deep glow of sunset, 

Caparisoned as for the fray, 
A knight, on his charger, come prancing 

As in chivahy's glorious day ; 
From his shoulders the bright-colored caftan 

Streamed forth on the cool evening blast, 
And I fancied the rider the spirit 

Of Salah-ud-din flashing past. 

But night-dews are falling around us, 

And shadows are gathering o'erhead ; 
'Tis time that the eyes of my darlings 

Were closed in their snug little bed : 
And remember, vay children, these pictures 

Are like pleasures of life — you will find 
When brightest they vanish, and shadows 

Remain as their token, behind. 



J. W. Barker was born in Vermont on the eastern shore of Lake Ohamplain. 
When he was quite young his parents removed to this State anil made their home 
in Antrim. He was educated at tlie academy in that town, and was litted for Col- 
lege. He then studied medicine for a time, but never applied for a degree. He 
turned his attention to teaching, and that has been his life-work. In 184.5 he went 
to Western New York, and in that section most of his life thus far has been spent. 
As a teacher he has been successful. He was elected President of the State Teach- 
ers' Association in ]8(i8. He has often read poems before literary societies. He 
wrote the "Centennial Poem," read in Antrim in 1877. For six years he was one of 
the editors of the i\ew York Teacher. He was at one time one o'f the propriclors of 
the Daily Journal and Courier, and of the Weekly Intelligencer, at Lockpuvt, N. \ ., 
aud became co-editor thereof. The oflice of these papers was dcsiroycii l)v fire, 
and the loss ruined him Jinancially. .\fter this disaster he resumed teaching in 
Buffalo, N. Y., where he still remains as principal of the Grammar Sdmol. He has 
written and published many poems, and has prepared a volume entitled "Waysi<le 
Songs," whicli may give a more permanent form to his writings. 



DARNING STOCKINGS. 

Were there never a standing record 
To measure time's rapid flight. 

Were there never a clock or dial 

I should know it were Saturday night ; 



306 POETS OF NEW HAMP8HIBE. 

I should know by the pile of stockings 
" In the basket on the floor, 

That the six dajs' work was ended, 
And another week was o'er ; 

And the balls upon the table 

Of white and twisted yarn, 
The needle, smooth and shining, 

That was only made to darn, 
And the patient, busy stitching, 

AVith the weaving to and fro, 
While a careful e^^e is watching 

For the rents in heel and toe. 

And every breach is mended 

In a manner most complete, — 
A dozen, neat and tidy. 

For as many busy feet ; 
Then off in the quiet dreamland 

With a spirit gentle and light, 
The pale and thoughtful watcher 

Is welcoming Saturday night. 

Let us learn from darning stockings, 

A lesson of patience and love ; 
From the midst of the selfish shadows, 

Let our spirits mount above ; 
The children of woe, we'll befriend them, 

Whoever the sufferers be, 
We'll seek for their faults, but to mend them 

With stitcbings of charit3\ 



ONE REQUEST. 

Life is a principle divine, 

AVhose radiant stars of glory shine 

Above the darkness of its sea ; 
And one fair star upon the wave, 
Shines through the darkness of the grave, 

The star of Immortality^ ! 

But sometime, in my lonely hours, 
AVhen mildew rests upon the flowers, 

And idle frost-winds whisper by ; 
When in the vale, I seem to hear 
The murmur of the dying year. 

And shadows dim the starry sky ; — 



EDWARD A. HOSMEE. ;^,,)7 



Upon the margin of a stream 
1 see, as in a glowing dream, 

A spot of earth, this body's home, 
And round it as the shadows fall 
At evening, gentle voices call, 

And spirit tokens bid me come. 

Well, when I reach that mystic shore. 
When this life's joy and pain are o'er. 

And loving friends around me gather, 
When b}- my side the angel stands, 
To lead me with his gentle hands 

Across the lone and silent river ; 

When this frail dust hath lost its power, 
To serve its mission of an hour, 

I little heed what friends ma}- do ; 
If love shall move, with sweet control. 
The tender longings of the soul, 

When I have passed this journey through. 

And 3-et I have one slight request. 
Just one — when I am laid to rest, — 

Nor can I tell the reason wh}-, — 
Where happy youth and childhood played, 
There let my lifeless dust be laid 

Beneath the azure of that sky. 

It must be that the singing streams 
Which mingled with my childish dreams, 

AVould murmur soft and sweet at even, 
And singing birds of childhood's morn, 
Would sweeter chant at early dawn. 

As they went singing up to heaven. 

And may be that the spirit's ear. 
In the glad morning of the year, 

When gladness fills the earth and sky, 
Would listen, as of old it heard 
The mingled songs of brook and bird. 

And bear the melodv on high. 



iEtrtoartr E. Il^osmcr. 

For several years Mr. Ilosmcr was a resident of Nasliua. He was esteemed as a 
teacher ornmsic, and a oomiio.^^er of much promise. He wrote the words and mu- 
sic of a larpc iiumher of pieces wliich were well received bv tlie public. He died iu 
Kansas City, Mo., in July, lt>55, wliile ou a western trip, tie was born about 182a. 



308 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

O GIVE ME A HOME BY THE SEA. 

O give me a home by the sea, 

Where wild waves are crested with foam. 
Where shrill winds are caroling free, 

As o'er the blue waters they come, 
For I'd list to the ocean's loud roar, 

And joy in its stormiest glee. 
Nor ask in this wide world for more 

Than a home by the deep heaving sea. 

At morn when the sun from the east 

Comes mantled in crimson and gold, 
Whose hues on the billows are cast. 

Which sparkle with splendor untold, 
O then b}- the shore would I stray, 

And roam as the halcyon free. 
From envy and care far away. 

At my home by the deep heaving sea ! 

At eve when the moon in her pride 

Rides queen of the soft summer night, 
And gleams on the murmuring tide, 

With floods of her silvery light, — 
O earth has no beauty so rare. 

No place that is dearer to me. 
Then give me, so free and so fair, 

A home by the deep heaving sea ! 



REMEMBER ME. 

When morn its beam is flinging 

On budding flower and tree. 
When birds are gaily singing, 

O then remember me. 
When all is bright above thee, 

And soars th}" spirit free, 
O think of those who love thee, 

O then remember me. 

When evening shades are creeping 

Along the dusky lea. 
When silent dews are weeping, 

O then remember me. 
And when thy heart is lonely. 

And sad thy musings be, 
Then think upon me only, 

O then remember me. 



AMOS B. BUSSELL. ;J09 

When soft the moon is beaming 

O'er quiet land and sea ; 
I'd have thee, gently dreaming, 

O then remember me. 
And thus, when morn brings gladness, 

Or evening bids it flee, 
In hours of jo}-, or sadness, 

O then remember me. 



amos 13. lauissicU. 

Rev. Amos B. Russen, a clergyman of the Mctliodist Episcopal Churcli, was born 
In Woodstock, Fehruarv '24, 1825. His mother died when he was hut nine months 
old. He entered tlie ministry at the age of 30 years, and at that lime he^'an to write 
miscellaneous arti( les for tlie press. His poems have been publislied from time 
to time, and if collected would make a volume. 



MY BORDER LAND. 

On the outer verge of life's dark strand 
'Neath the azure sky of a sunlit da}', 
I stand and behold not far away, 
The beautiful shores of my border land. 

I watch the gleams of its golden sand. 
Its hills and vales b}' faith I see ; 
Whose ravishing charms are a joy to me, 
And I love my beautiful border land. 

What lieth beyond my border land ? 
Is the Fxlen of blessedness far awa}- ? 
I list, while the white winged seraphs say 
"Thy home is beyond the border land." 

I take my chart and staff in hand, 
Ins[)ired by a hope of ecstatic jo}'. 
While rapturous thoughts ni}' mind employ 
And go in quest of my border land. 



AD ASTRA. 

The sliadows gather round my feet, 
And lengthen o'er the grassy vale. 
While clouds are slowly on retreat, 
And hushed to stillness is the gale. 

Awhile I see the full orbed moon, 
Just peering from behind a cloud, 



•no F0ET8 OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

I mourn because her light so soon, 
Will hide behind another cloud. 

An angel of the night appears, 
And sets the starry lamps ablaze, 
And now devoid of hopes and fears 
I muse upon their twinliling rays. 

I gaze up into heaven afar, 

At briUiant orbs remote and near, • 

And wonder if my guiding star 

In all the train shines bright and clear. 

I wonder if the form of cla}'-, 
Which grovels in this realm of night, 
Will shine at last with heavenly ray, 
As seraphs in a world of light. 



MY MOTHER. 

Oft was I told when but a thoughtless child 
About m}' mother, how she sang and smiled, 
Her raven tresses, and her radiant ej'e, 
Till fell consumption laid her down to die. 

I fain would had to check my wayward youth 
Her faithful counsel, and her kind reproof; 
This admonition I was then denied, 
For e'er my thoughts awoke my mother died. 

My thoughts now stray to where the willow weeps, 
To where my long lost mother gently sleeps ; 
Though in the ground is nought but common dust. 
Her wakeful spirit mingles with the just. 

And shall I in that bright celestial world 
My mother meet? her saintl}^ form behold? 
Aye, shall I gi-eet her near the eternal throne, 
And know her who on earth I ne'er have known? 



ANCHORED. 

The sea was rough, the storm was loud, 
The night set in and all was dark ; 
Huge waves enfolded like a shroud 
My rudely driven and helpless bark. 



WILLIAM STARK. 311 

Blast after blast bore down with speed, 
P^'rom Arctic skies the storm was driven ; 
It was a time of fear and need, 
For my fond hope was nearly riven. 

Wave after wave would lave the sides 
Of the frail craft in which I rode ; 
Again retnrning came the tides 
Lashing the walls of my abode. 

Adrifted on the angr}' sea, 
As drifts a withered autumn leaf; 
The wailing winds spake wrath to me, 
Filling my heart with bitter grief. 

JNIy bark came o'er the harbor bar, 
And then I reefed the tattered sail ; 
T saw above the morning star; 
My anchor dropped and stood the gale. 



^ISiilliam Stark. 

William Stark was born in Manchester, July 16, 1825. He was admitted to Phillips 
Academy, Andover, Mass., in 1843; entered Williams College in 184C and graduated 
from the same in 1850; was adniilted to Ihe bar in New Yoi-k in 1851, and in 1853 re- 
moved to Manchester, where lie followed the legal profession until a short time 
previous to his death. His literary abilities were of a high order, and had he lived 
to develop his powers in this direction he might have attained gi-eat distinction. 
He was a student of natural histoi-y, and at one time possessed a park containing a 
large collection of foreign and domestic birils and animals, which was ever open 
for the amusement of the public. He was a great-grandson of Major John Stark. 
He died October 29, 1873. 



EXTRACTS FROM CENTENNIAL POEM. 

Delivered at Manchester, October 22, 1851. 

So let US unite as we gather here 

On the safe return of a hundreth 3'ear, 

In a hasty search with a curious e3'e, 

O'er the record book, of the days gone by. 

From the letters old, on its mouldy page 

We may draw some good for the coming age. 

Our fishermen were of a sturdy race. 

Who had this spot for their dwelling place, 

On the slimy rock by the water side. 

Or the jutting peak in the foaming tide, 

Where the lordly salmon wildly leapt 

O'er the lofty rock, where the waters swept ; 

And the shad Avith the flash of his silver side, 



312 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

With the alewife, sculled in the foaming tide 
Mid the wat'ry spra}' and the snowy foam. 
'Mong the raging waves, was the fisher's home ; 
And he loved to stand on the slipper}' rock 
Which had stood, through time, the water's shock- 
In the foaming waves, below, to feel. 
With an iron crook, for the squirming eel. 

In my boyhood days upon eels I fed. 
And, as now to 3-ou, is the banquet spread, 
Of such simple food as the past reveals, 
1 invite you now to a dish of eels. 

O'er every land, and in every age, 
By the high and low, by the fool and sage, 
For the dainty eel, has been left a space 
At the festive board, an honored place. 

When the Roman consul gave his feast, 

Of the rarest kind of bird and beast, 

'T would have seemed to him but a scanty meal 

Had he failed to supply the dainty eel. 

Great Flaccus doffed his raiment of pride. 
And in sackcloth mourned for an eel that died ; 
And with keenest pang that the heart can feel, 
Iloratius wept for a squirming eel ; 
And higher still in the list of fame, 
I'll point to the royal Henry's name. 
Who died as history's page reveals, 
A martyred soul to the cause of eels ! 

Our fathers treasured the slim}^ prize, 
And they loved the eel as their very e^-es ; 
Yvom these, the}' formed their food in chief, 
And eels Avere known as "Derryfield beef." 
The marks of eels were plain to trace 
In the children's gait, in the children's face, 
For before they walked, it is well confirmed 
That the children never crept, but squirmed. 

Such a mighty power, did the squirmers wield 

O'er the goodly men of old Derryfield, 

It was sometimes said that their onl}' care, 

Their onl}' wish, and their only pra3'er, 

For the present world, and the world to come. 

Was a string of eels, and a jug of rum. 



ALB ON H. BAILS T. 313 

Enough of this, — for no true heart desires, 

To mark the failings of our noble sires ; — 

From little follies, though but seldom free 

Of grosser vices, they had less than we. 

Their deeds of honor, are hy far too high, 

To feel the lash of scorn and ribaldry ; 

For every field which drank the patriot's blood, 

Has tasted theirs, — the freest of the flood. 

Yet while* we point, with proudly swelling eye, 

To Bunker's column, towering to the sk}' ; 

And while we boast, the noble blood the}' shed, 

Till Concord's plains blushed with the gory red, 

They have their glory, — it is theirs alone ; 

We too have ours, and w-e, too, claim our own. 

The present age, each heart will own as true. 

With all its follies, has its virtues too. 

Where'er a schoolhouse dots the village green, 

Where'er a church spire charms the rural scene. 

There stands a monument our pride to fill, 

No less than that which towers on Bunker Hill. 

Where Christian i)eople to the altar wend. 

Where happy children o'er their lessons bend, 

Where iron horses whistle o'er the laud, 

Where crowded cities rise on barren sand. 

Where captured rivers feed our monster mills. 

There are our "Concords," there, our "Bunker Hills." 



A. H. Bailey is a native of Unity, lie lias been connected with printing since his 
boyhood; was a comjioj^itor on the Courier, printed in Concord, and on the White 
Mountain ^Sgis, in Haverhill. He was afterwards co-publisher of the first men- 
tioned paper; publisher of the Boston Daily Sun; Court reporter for the Boston 
Morning Chronicle, Boston Daily Mail, Boston Chronotype, and Boston Transcript. 



THE VILLAGE BELLS. 

The village bells, the village bells, how joyfull}- the}' peal ! 
Casting a mellow music round, the wounded heart to heal. 
They break the melancholy spell made by the dismal night. 
And wake the weary slumberer at earliest dawn of light. 

They ope the portals of the day with glad'ning, happy sounds, 
Inviting earnest labor back to cheerful duty-rounds ; 
And when in noontide's fervid heat they call the toiler home. 
How gladly then he seeks retreat from nature's heated dome. 



314 



POETS OF NEW HAMP8HIBE. 



When evening's peaceful vesper hour renews their cheerful la^ys, 
How then incline all grateful hearts to join in tuneful praise ; 
How then as each successive note rises from earth to heaven, 
Man's very spirit seems imbued with pure and holy leaven. 

When night her curtain draws around, and e'en the chimes have 

rest. 
Life's aspirations then arise to regions of the blest. 
Then let the tuneful village bells still sound uix)n the air — 
At early dawn, at sultry noon, at hour of evening prayer. 

There's more than music in the bells, a lesson in each tone. 
Reminds us all that our abode is not on earth alone ; 
But that our spirits may ascend, e'en as those notes arise. 
Unto a brighter world than this beyond the distant skies. 



TO BUNKER HILL MONUMENT. 



Hail ! proud, historic pile, 
O'er-looking Freedom's soil. 
Recalling, as time rolls, 
The days that tried men's souls, 
A century ago ; 

When war-clouds o'er them hung 
And hearts with woe were wrung 
By a t3'rannic foe. 

Thou tell'st of those who bled, 

The honored, mighty dead 

That slumber at thy base. 

When on yon chosen height, 

In sanguinary fight. 

Each dauntless held his place. 

Amid the cannon's roar. 

Until the vale below 

Was reddened with the flow, 

And slimed with foreign gore. 

Thou tell'st of contest long. 
Re-told in tale and song. 
And proud historic page. 
How Freedom, sore beset, 
The tyrant foeman met, 
In the tumult of war ; 
Which, at its direful close. 
Left thousands to repose, 
With their arand labors o'er. 



Hail ! noble monument, 
Reared on the battlement 
Of glorious Liberty ! 
Thou'lt tell through coming time 
The sons of every clime, 
A wondrous history, 
Glad'ning the old and 3'oimg 
Of every race and tongue, 
Yea, millions yet to be. 

From thee, inspiring shaft, 
The winds shall gladly waft 
Other than idle tales ; 
The world shall learn the might 
Of souls made strong by right, 
When wrong assails. 

O, may'st thou ever stand 

A bulwark to the land. 

While oceans round it roll ; 

May North and South ujihold 

Our heritage of old ; 

From East to farthest West, 

May Freedom's home be blest. 

And every freeman's soul 

Behold in thee a sign 

Of one, whose hand divine. 

Shall keep it whole. 



JUSTINE. WALKEB. 3 If, 



Jugtitt IE. Wi^Xttx, 



J. E. Walker was born in Fairfax, Tt , Sept. 1-2, 1825. At the apre of twenty 
years he went to Johnson, in the same State, and attended tlie academy nearly two 
"years. He then went to Lowell, Mass., where he remained six or seven years, 
'there he lust the use of his right eye by an accident while workinfj at a circular 
saw. In 185S he removed to Nashua and has resided tliere since then. He had but 
little time to devote to literature, or anything else except unremitting toil, until 
about 1874 when he commenced writing. 



TRUST IN GOD. 

If storms arise on life's rough sea, 
And angry billows toss my bark ; 
If friends desert, and turn from me, 
And everything seems drear and dark ; 
Still, on my bended knees I'll cry 
For strength to bear, whate'er I must ; 
And on his promise I'll rel^', 
And in my God, have perfect trust. 

If want should stare me in the face. 
And hunger's hitter pang be felt ; 
And if to rest, I have no place, 
And naught to me in kindness dealt; 
Yet simply to his cross I'll cling. 
And ow'n his dealings are but just ; 
And to his praise I'll ever sing. 
And in his word have perfect trust. 

And when with age my form is bent, 
And wrinkles gatlier on m}' face. 
When silver locks in time are sent, 
AVith feeble limbs and faltering pace. 
Still, in sweet prayer I'll lift my voice 
To Him, who formed me from the dust, 
And in his name will I rejoice. 
And in his love have perfect trust. 

When husky tones, and trembling hand, 
With hollow cheek, and sunken eye. 
Proclaims to me life's ebbing sand. 
And warn me tiiat my end is nigh ; 
Still, I will put my trust in Him 
Who notes the si)arrow wlien it falls ; 
And though mine eyes are weak and dim, 
I'll know his voice, when Jesus calls. 

And when at last he bids me come. 
And rends the brittle thread of life, 



POETS OF NEW HAMPSniBE. 



I'll fly to my eternal home 
In realms unknown to want and strife. 
To sin and suffering then farewell ; 
Farewell, the rugged paths I've trod ; 
For with my Saviour I shall dwell, 
And trust forever in m}' God. 



A THREE FOLD ASPECT. 

Flowers that bloom in eveiy field. 
And even to the waj'side stray, 
And fragrance of rich odor yield. 
To cheer the weary traveller's way, 
Are often trodden under foot, 
Bj' thoughtless youth, and careless men 
But if they've firmly taken root. 
They'll spring to life, and bloom again. 

So men who journey life's rough way, 
And scatter blessings as they go ; 
Who seek to rescue those who stray, 
And fain would share another's woe ; 
Are often crushed beneath the heel 
Of selfish and unfeeling men ; 
But if within, true christian zeal 
Has taken root, they'll rise again. 

Insects that flutter round the gas. 
Are lurfed b}- the dazzling light ; 
Its burning element, alas ! 
Is whollj' hidden from their sight. 
They feel the pain the illusion brings. 
Yet from the danger do not fly, 
Till they have lost their tiny wings ; 
Then fall to earth, and droop, and die. 

And so with men ; the social glass, 
That deathless foe of Adam's race — 
With winning smile,. beguiles alas ! 
Our noblest men to its embrace. 
They feel its fangs, its deadly stings. 
Yet to escape the}' do not tr}-. 
Till the}' become but loathsome things 
Unfit to live ; then drink and die. 

Had I a voice like clarion note 
To speak the language of my soul, 



ASENATH C. STICKNEY. 



31 



Then all m_y life would I devote, 
To crying down the social bowl. 
The illusion past, it leaves a scar, 
More ghastly than the surgeon's knife ; 
While all our happiness 'twill mar, 
And give us but a wasted life. 

The bird that flutters from its nest. 
And thinks to fly like those around, 
With broken wing and bleeding breast, 
Will soon lie prostrate on the ground. 
Its mates may bind the broken wing, 
With tender care preserve its life, 
'Twill always be a crippled thing, 
Unfit to share in noble strife. 

So bo3'S who learn to smoke and drink, 
And think 'tis manl}*, noble, grand. 
Below the brute ere long will sink. 
Greeted with jeers on every hand. 
Kind friends may strive to lift them up 
And make them stand erect like men. 
And they may dash away the cup, 
But are the}' what the}- might have been ? 



Tliis writer was born In Newburyport, Mass., January 25, 1826. She was placed 
in a Shalvcr Society when five years of age, and bred an"d educated therein. Sino« 
her minority she has taught the District School, Xo. 8, in the town of Canterbury, 
about twenty-live terms, during which time the Superintending School Committeo 
of the town has given, of her school, a vei-y creditable report. 

WORDS OF MY SAVIOUR. 

How hoi}' and how beautiful, 

The sayings of our Lord ; 
How clothed in grace and dignit}'. 

Is each inspired word ; 
The}' are to me as golden fruit. 

In silver pictures set ; 
Like music which the finite voice, 

Can never counterfeit. 

Though uttered ages long ago, 

They still retain the power 
To cheer the weary soul, and throw 

Light o'er each adverse hour ; 



318 POETS OF NEW HAMFSHIBE. 

And countless they who, ages hence, 
Shall sing and speak the praise, 

Which fills the heart, and moves the lips. 
Of saints in latter da3's. 



UNIVERSAL LOYP:. 

Blest be that universal love. 

For which the Christian aims ; 
Whose source in God is found above 

All narrow human claims. 
As towers the loftj' mountain top 

Above the distant sea, 
So stands the merits of this love 

In its divinity. 

Be lifted up, O virgin throng, 

With open hearts embrace 
The principle which purifies, 

And elevates the race ; 
The love which seeks the good of all, 

In ev'ry land and clime ; 
Which vitalizes, cheers, forgives. 

And renders life sublime. 



E. W. Wooddell is a native of Wasliiugton County, New York, where he was edu- 
cated and became a lawyer. Alter practising his profession for some years in thai 
State he removed to Ciaremont. A pulmouar.v disease and a loss of voice have 
obliged him to abandon the practice of law. He resides iu Unity and Las turned 
his attention in part to literature. 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 

'Tis many long decades since once those seers 
Were plodding onward towards the radiant west. 

To see the Promised of a thousand years. 

In whom 'twas said, all nations should be blest. 

And scoffers then as now were constant seen, 

Who mocked at eveiy good, and railed with scorn ; 

And making merry at the thought I ween. 

That He, so long foretold, should now be born. 

But onward still along that rugged road 

The wise men urged their slow and weary way ; 

A blazing star made known the rude abode 
Wherein the Prince of Life and Glory la}'. 



FBEDEBIC A. MOORE. 319 

Such an abode ! ah, who would think it meet 
For child of earth, in which to see the light ; 

Yet angels from the throne, come down to greet 
The new-born babe with anthems of delight. 

Shepherds beheld and wondered at the scene, 
The like of which had never been on earth ; 

Celestial torches lighted all the green, 
In confirmation of a Saviour's birth. 

Could wise men doubt of what was there revealed ! 

Na}', all misgivings must forever cease ; 
The Prophets b}' the hand of God were sealed. 

And in our world appeared the Prince of Peace. 

Down through the centuries that since have passed, 

The wise have on the Nazarine believed ; 
The stricken poor their griefs have on him cast. 

And gained rewards that mind had ne'er conceived. 

Still let us see through fogs and mists of earth 
The glittering star, as did the seers of old ; 

A harbinger that points a Saviour's birth. 
And in his cause be faithful, true, and bold. 



J^rctrcric E. Jifloorc. 

F. A. Moore was born in Bristol, February 11, 1826. He was educated at Hebron 
and New Hampton af.'uleniics ; studied law in Mancliester, but iu fact studied 
Emerson, Carlyle and Floraci' Grocley nmrelliau Blackstone; became a journalist; 
was the first editor of the ManchcsU'r Daily .Miiror in 1851. He went to Hpriugficld, 
111., iu 18o2 and was connected there willi llie Daily Journal. His next move was to 
La Crosse, AVis., iu 1851, where lie was an editor bight years. In short he lias been 
a journalist for about thirty years. For the past nine years he has resided in 
Washington, D.C., a part of the time off on special Indian commission business. He 
has drawn "third prize in matrimonial lottery," despite of "bachelor proclamation." 
Iu 1800 he compiled "The Book of Gems; a gift for all Seasons." 



THE BACHELOR'S SONG. 

A single life's the life for me, 

Bright sunn}' isles are there ; 
I'll dasli wide o'er its bounding sea, 

Nor love nor hate the fair. 
With fearless heart and manlj' pride, 

Against the surging strife, 
M}' peaceful bark will gallant ride, 

Untroubled with a wife. 

Wlio tamely lets a woman's art 
His foohsh heart iuthrall, 



320 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

Will surely learn, too late, alas, 
That love's a humbug all ! 

'Tis all a cheat, a lie, a show, 
To trap poor sill}' men — 

Old maids to Bedlam all may go, 
And ne'er come back again ! 

In manhood's prime 'tis downright sin 

To run such odds for life ; 
Mid countless blanks, to only win 

A useless, worthless wife ; 
And when, by fate or fortune blest. 

Which would indeed be worse. 
The painted, bauble prize, at best. 

May prove a splendid curse. 

A wife's a pearl of tempting hue, 

But stormy waves are round it, 
And dearly will a mortal rue 

The day when first he found it. 
If all her locks were gleaming gold. 

Where gems like dewdrops fall. 
One passing hour of life, free-souled, * 

Were sweetly worth them all. 

The bird that wings the sunny sky, 

To greet the rosy morn, — 
The stag that scales the mountain high. 

When rings the hunter's horn — 
When he shall seek the crowded plain. 

Or birds their prison-cage. 
Then I'll be bound in Hymen's chain, 

To bless a future age. 



Josepf) iEtrtoarti l^ooti. 

.1. E. Hoocl was bom in 182R, and graduated at Dartmouth College in 1841. He 
was for many years editor of an anti-slavery paper in Concord, ami afterwards for 
a long time was employed as journalist on the Springfield (Mass.) Jlepuhlican. 
He died in 1871. 



WHITE RIVER. 

Thou hast not majesty ; no navies ride 
Upon thy tranquil bosom, bearing on 
The weight of luxury from distant climes. 
Thou dost not heave a flood of water down 



GEOEGE PAYN qUACKENBOS. 321 

To shake the frightened earth. No poet's song 
Has made thy name immortal as his own. 
Yet art thou fair ; crystal the waters flow 
From out thy mountain springs, and hasten on 
Unmingled with a taint of earthly mould, 
But white and pearly as the dew at dawn, 
Transparent as the good man's sympathies, 
And open as the guileless soul of 3'outh. 
I love thy purity. The sunbeams pierce 
And mingle with th}' depths, and dwell in thee, 
As truth transfuses the ingenuous soul. 
Lessons of simple verity and love 
I've garnered from thee. Quietly flow on, 
Fameless White River, bringing purest thoughts, 
Unto the happ3' dwellers on thy banks. 
If I may never visit thee again 
To be inspired by thy low melod}'. 
Yet still flow on ; for there are those I love, 
Because translucent and sincere, like thee. 
Who see thee still at sunrise, and at noon, 
And when the moon upon th}- bosom rests ; 
The3-gaze in silence, and — they ask not wh}' — 
A soft tranquillity, hnlf sad, half sweet. 
With far off gleamings of a spirit light 
In tlie deep soul, at tliy suggestion comes. 
Be their life genuine and pure like thine, 
A living fount, a tranquil, ceaseless stream 
Of kind and holy deeds, reflecting heaven. 



G. P. Qiiackenbos, LL.D., w.is born in New York city iu 18-26. He received <i 
collegiate eiiucation and became principal of Henry St. Grammar School in bis 
native city. In July, 1848, he starteil a literary journal, The Litcraii/ Aiiicricdii, and 
was publisher and editor, at the same time conlinuing bis connection with the 
Grammar School. The American was publi.shed weekly for two years, when it 
was merged into another imblicatinn. Few literary papers in this country have 
possessed such literary merit as did the .\nierican nniler Mr. (^)uackenbos' manage- 
ment. B'or al)out twelve years this ])iiet, orator anil well known author of various 
school books, made his ri'sidcnct' in the tuniiner and autumn in New London, and 
there, at his home near the Lake Sunapee, devoted himself with untiring zeal to 
literary labor. Hi.s death, the result of an accident, the overturning of his carriage 
which precipitated himself and his wife from a bridge while crossing a stream, 
occurred in New London, July 24, 1881. 



MY SOUL'S SONG. 

Oh ! beautiful 'tis, when the morn is awaking, 
To see the first sunbeam the ocean forsaking ; 
To see a thin streamlet of golden light glowing. 
Into rivers, and rivers of radiance flowing ; 



322 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 



To list to the murmur of nature's low voices, 
To listen, while earth and the heaven rejoices. 

More beautiful still, at the falling of even, 

To see the still earth, and to see the still heaven ; 

To look on the moon, as she rises so lightly ; 

To note the mute stars, as they glimmer so brightly ; 

To gaze on creation so silenth' sleeping, 

And see the light sparkles that evening is weeping ! 

Oh, beautiful then is the slow-gliding river. 

As its waves in the arms of the night-breezes shiver ; 

And again to the stars fling their silvery glances. 

As on its smooth surface their brilliancy dances ; 

Oh, beautiful ever, at falling of even. 

The sweetness of earth, and the silence of heaven ! 

But, vaj soul, oh ! why of the beautiful singing? 

Thy fingers wh}^ o'er thy harp art thou flinging ? 

Say, canst thou drink in the soft rays of the morning? 

Is thine the bright gold, that the sky is adorning? 

Canst thou e'er interpret creation's low voices, 

Or tell what the earth says, when loud she rejoices? 

Or tell me, my soul, at the falling of even, 
For thee is the earth still, for thee is the heaven ? 
Dost thou know what the moon is, in purity beaming? 
Canst fly to the planets ! Oh ! why art thou dreaming? 
There are fetters of iron on thy fluttering pinions ; 
Thou canst not soar up to the angels' dominions. 

How long will the river glide on in its brightness? 

How long will its waters go rippling in lightness ? 

Ah ! ever}' bright thing that thou seest decaj'eth. 

Nor long as the sound of thy melody stayeth. 

Ah ! know, tho' the harp-strings sound ga^' 'neath thy fingers, 

A breath of decay on each lovely thing lingers. 

Then no more strike th}' harp, but be silent in sorrow ; 
The rose that is sweetest to-day, dies to-morrow. 
The cliains of this earth, have unpitying, bound thee ; 
Thou ne'er canst soar freel}', while they are around thee ; 
And ne'er till thou feelest the balm-breath of heaven, 
Eternal the beauties of morn, or of even. 



THE ROSE. 

When Venus, from the foaming spray, 
Sprang lightly upon Delos' isle, 



GEORGE PAYN QUACKENBOS. 82;^ 

The earth, in vain, upon her flowers 

Looked round to find as sweet a smile ; 
Not one was as the goddess fair. 
Not one could with her charms compare. 

Earth grieved to see her own surpassed, 
And looked once more — quick on her view 

Burst forth the rose, voluptuous 
In her thin dress of crystal dew. 

No more she grieved ; the mother smiled, 

As she beheld her loveliest child. 

The rose is beautj^'s cherished flower ; 

Peeps out from her soft golden hair, 
Plajs lighth' o'er her rounded cheek. 

And flings her own briglit blushes there : 
Then on her sweet lips, wearied, lies. 
And drinks her smiles, and drinks her sighs. 

She is the darling child of May, 

Who folds her fondly in her arras, 
And pauses on her velvet wa}', 

To veil in moss her rapturous charms ; 
Then kisses her with loving eye. 
Nor stays, to see her favorite die. 

The rose is sweet at morning-tide. 

When heav}' with the tears of night ; 
The rose is sweet at evening hour. 

When o'er it pours the sunset light. 
In maiden's hair, in maiden's bower. 
The rose is still the loveliest flower. 



THE FLOWER AND THE TREE. 

There was a verdant little spot, 

B}' clustering ivies sweetly shaded, 
Velveted o'er with living moss. 

And lit l)y stars that never faded. 
A flower in the sweet spot sprang up, 

And grew until its bloom was bright ; 
Then, in its prime, it sadly drooped, 
And closed its soft leaves on the light, 
A poet told its liistory, as he passed b}' and sighed : 
*'A flower sprang up amid the moss, and grew, and bloomecl, 
and died." 



324 POETS OF NEW HAMP8HIBE. 

Ere winter forged his glittering chains, 

Wliere tlie young flower liad drooped its head, 
Nature another child brought forth, 

And nursed it on the same soft bed. 
It grew, and as the years flew by, 

New strength was added, beauty given ; 
Until, a mighty tree, its top 

Was mingled with the gre}' of heaven. 
Again the poet struck his l^re, and woods and groves replied : 
"For ages shall the tree survive, majestic in its pride." 

That mossy cool spot is my heart, 

And love, the heaven-tinted flower. 
It grew, it bloomed, then withering, died, 

And passed awa}', in one brief hour. 
Though other flowers were bright and sweet, 

The beauty of the scene was gone ; 
Love perished ; every hope was dead ; 

The solemn soul was left alone. [died ; 

A flower sprang up amid the moss, and grew, and bloomed, and 
Love perished in a youthful heart, and all was dead beside. 

But soon a tree, above the place. 

Shadowed the floweret's quiet grave ; 
So when the flowers of love have closed, 
The leaves of friendship kindl}' wave ; 
So every year but added strength ; 

The frailer love hath passed forever — 
Less bright, but more enduring far. 

The bloom of friendship withereth never. 
Love sprang forth in a passionate heart, it grew, and bloomed, 

and died ; 
But friendship's tree still stately waves, majestic in its pride. 



SONG OF THE BUTTERFLY. 

When bright-eyed Spi'ing, with her flowery train. 

Comes tripping in joy o'er the naked plain. 

To scatter her favors and blessings around, 

And fling her smiles on the frosted ground. 

When the air with the sweetness of blossoms is rife, 

And the sun is warm, I spring to life : 

A beauteous thing, with gossamer wing, 

And a merry song to the rose I sing. 

And still as Summer comes sweeping along, 
I shake my wing, and chatter my song ; 



GEORGE PATN QUACKENBOS. ;325 

And hie from the rose to the lily's breast, 
Or make in the woodbine sweet ni}^ nest, 
Or down in the shade the violet kiss. 

Summer ! no season's as happy as this ! 
All, all the day, on my pinions ga}', 

1 woo the bright flowers in innocent play. 

Now Summer is gone, and the autumn gale 
From the hills comes sweejnng adown the vale, 
With a shiver I creep this bush behind. 
Whose moaning leaves chide the chilly- wind : 
(), where can I go to keep me warm. 
To hide away from the merciless storm? 
O, where can I go? for the cold blasts blow. 
And the clouds hang down with a weight of snow. 

The stars look dim in the clouded sk}- ; 
The moon hath mantled her face on high ; 
O where is the sun with his blessed ra}' — 
The rose, on whose lovel}' breast I lay? 
Gone, gone ! not a leaf is left on the trees ; 
Chill Winter is coming — I freeze, I fre^e ! 
(J, I cannot fly ! dim, dim is mine e3'e — 
My heart is frozen — I die, I die ! 



THE SPIRIT AND THE BRIDE SAY "COME." 

Listen ! far from Heaven above Leave a world of sinful strife. 
Sounds a voice of holy love ; Touch the healing wave of life ; 
He who speaks in thunder loud. Streams of mercy flow through 
Calls the lightning from the Heaven, 

cloud, To the weary rest is given : 

Now in accents low and sweet Sinner, come !" 

Bids thee to the mercy-seat ; ^et the words of mercy roll 

''Mortal, come ! j^^^^^^^ ^^^ ^^^,^^ f^.Q,„ j^ ^^ 

In no and desert sta}", j^ . 

Thou art thirsting-come away ! j^et each grateful mortal say. 
Here are waters ever flowmg, uFellow-sinner, come away ! 
W ith the tmts of glory glowmg: (.^ ^.^ ^^ ^^^^ Saviour's feet, 

IMortal, come ! ^^ ^.^ ^o the mercy-seat ; 

J^isten ! from the clouds of earth Holy Spirit, 

Breaks a sound of hcav'nly birth: Humbly we thy call obey ! 
Wounded spirit lend thine ear ; Jn no desert will we stay ; 
"^rroubled soul, the Bride is near : To the streams with glory glow- 
Comfort speaks upon her voice — ing. 
Broken heart, rejoice ! rejoice ! To the waters freely flowing, 
"Sinner, come ! Guide us Thou !" 



326 POETS OF NEW HA^IPSHIEE. 



Samuel J. l^iU, 



S. J. Pike was a native of Newbury, Mass., born April 23, 1838. He graduated at 
Bowdoin College in 1847, and soon after went to Dovex', where he remained four or 
live years. It was while a resident of that place that ho wrote and published in 
the New York Literary American sevei-al poems of great merit, among which was 
"The Better Land." From Dover he went to New York and was employed by 
Mason and Brothers as critic an<l translator. He delivered orations on Commence- 
ment and other occasions. His death occurred in Boston, November 6, 1861. 



STANZAS. 

Oh, visions rare of early hours, 

That soft!}' now my bosom fill, 
Like perfume floating from the flowers, 

Or tones that tremulously thrill 

From lute strings jarred and quivering still, 
Than all my jo3-ance fonder far, 
How delicate and dear ye are ! 

Oh, gleamings of a sunny face, 

That lavished once its smiles on me, 

Lithe atoms of a form of grace, 
That I no more ma}' hope to see ; 
Faint echoes of the melody 

Of lips, where sleep and silence reign, 

How throng 3'e round my soul again. 

Oh, memories of a starry night. 

Of patiis with dew}' buds bestrewn. 

And fragrant breezes moist and light. 
Loaded with breath of ha}' new-mown ; 
Of white hands trembling in ni}' own, 

Whose clasp grew closer while an ear 

Was bent to words none else may hear : 

Of tresses smooth as ravens' plumes, 
And e3X's with lashes dark as they, 

Whose brilliance still my breast illumes : 
Of words that will not pass away, 
But gain new beauty da}' by day ; 

Of heart that fluttered as a bird. 

Whose fragile nest is rudely stirred : 

Of love which girlhood's bosom knew, 

That in the first delicious fiush 
Of womanhood more fervent grew ; 

How gently come ye all, like blush 

Of rosy sunset to the hush 
Of waters on the waveless sea, 
And soothe my care as silently ! 



SAMUEL J. PIKE. 327 



Oh heart of mine ! in boyhood's day, 

How soon wore love's sweet lessons learned ; 

How slow the flame will die away, 
That first upon thine altar burned ; 
How hatli iny yearning spirit turned 

To seek for bliss it knew of yore, 

And heard the whisper. Nevermore ! 



THE BETTER LAND. 

Toiling pilgrims, faint and weary, lift we up our tearful e^-es 
To the radiant bourne and blissful, whitherward our journey lies ; 
To a land on groping Reason glimmering dimly and afar, 
While to Faith's clear gaze it shineth like a fixed, unwaning star. 

There no blinding beams of noontide on the vision flash and glow ; 
Shrouded midnight never Cometh with her footfalls hushed and slow 
But undarkening brilliance floateth on the waves of holy air, 
Kindled by the smile eternal, which our Father deigns to wear. 

There the verdure fadeth never, and the odors never die ; 
There beneath unwilling blossoms piercing thorns may never lie : 
Music, softer and diviner than from earthly lyres hath rolled, 
Through angelic utterance breaketh, and from quivering cords 
of gold. 

In the greenness of the meadows, sweet still waters smile and 

sleep. 
Round whose fragi-ant, rosy margin countless angels vigils keep 
Over souls b}- sin untainted, b}- temptation purified, 
Who through grief and patience strengthened in beatitude abide. 

Like a dove of snow}' plumage, brooding on her leafy nest. 
Peace in sacred beauty resteth, deep in ever}' saintly breast ; 
Hope hath found the dazzling splendor of her grandest day 

outshone. 
While through every bosom thrilleth joy that sense hath never 

known. 

Tears that trembled on the lashes in affliction's keenest hours 
Were as dews of summer evenings, on the thirsty lips of flowers. 
Vanishing, when da3-light coraeth, or but briefly lingering, 
That they ma}- uncounted jewels round the glistening blossoms 
fling. 

Faith to sight hath been perfected ; love new fervor hath attained : 
Ghostly doubt and fear have perished in the heart where once 
they reigned ; 



328 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Gleaming crowns adorn each forehead by the thorns of sorrow torn, 
And he wears the whitest raiment who the heaviest cross hath 
borne. 

We from that fair land are sundered b}^ a river deep and wide, 
Whose chill waves dash nearer to us like an ocean's pulsing tide ; 
Day b}' da}', beneath the billows hosts go down, who rise no more 
Till the unreturning current bears them to the heavenly shore. 

There in mansions God hath builded, evermore unperishing, 
Chant they hymns of loftiest measure to their Maker, Saviour, 

King, 
Who in mercy hath his creatures with eternal dwellings blest, 
Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest. 

Wandering pilgrims, faint and weary, lift we up our tearful eyes. 
To the radiant bourne and blissful, whitherward our journe}' lies ; 
While her pinions lithe and buo^'ant Hope unfurls to waft the soul 
From the depths of its despondence to the glories of its goal. 



HE GIVETH HIS BELOVED SLEEP. 

When wearil}' the e3^elids close, 

And for unbroken slumber yearn ; 
When, faint and feeble, for repose. 

The over-laden heart would turn 
From earth's fallacious happiness, 

To joys more pure and peace more deep, 
God bendeth from on high to bless, 

And giveth his beloved sleep. , 

Upon the placid bosom rest, 

Like summer rain on blossoms, dreams 
Of regions beautiful and blessed. 

While on the quickened vision gleams 
A light that earth can never dim, 

Nor folding clouds its radiance keep, 
Enkindled at the throne of Him 

Who giveth his beloved sleep. 

Li sweet and full forgetfulness 

Of toils and tears and worldl}' woe. 
The spirit trembles in excess 

Of bliss and longs itself to throw 
Amid death's narrow stream, and swim 

To shores where none may wake to weep. 
Abiding near the feet of Him 

Who giveth his beloved sleep. 



SAMUEL J. PIKE. 329 



Then, in the grandeur of the day 

That waneth never into night, 
The shades like mists shall melt away, 

And heaven its own abundant light 
Diffuse around the soul that lives 

Where angels ceaseless sabbath keep, 
Beneath the smile of Him who gives 

Unto his own beloved sleep. 



SONNET. 

The blithe birds of the summer-tide are flown, 
Cold, motionless, and mute stands all the wood. 
Save as the restless wind, in mournful mood 

Strays through the tossing limbs with saddest moan. 

Tlip leaves it wooed with kisses, overblown 
By gusts capricious, pitiless, and rude. 
Lie dank and dead amid the solitude ; 

Where-through it waileth desolate and lone. 
But with a clearer splendor sunlight streams 

Athwart the bare, slim branches, and on high 
Each star, in night's rich coronal that beams. 

Tours down intenser brilliance on the eye. 
Till dazzled fancy finds her gorgeous dreams 

Outshone in beauty by the autumn sky. 



SONNET. 

Tlie buoyant songs of youth's swift hours are flown, 

And through his heart, whose locks are thin and white, 

With rime of age, the spirit of delight 
Goes wailing with a melancholy moan. 
For all the joys, that hope, with winning tone, 

Troclaimed should linger, deathless dear and bright. 

Around the day which waneth now to night. 
The spirit maketh fruitless search, alone, 

Yet to the trustful and aspiring soul, 
Exalting visions of its home are given ; 

And grander glory clothes its lofty goal, 
Than stars assume in Autumn's cloudless even. 

Earth slowly sinks in darkness and in dole. 
While breaks the pure, auroral light of Heaven. 



330 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

lEnodj George Etrams. 

E. G. Adams is a native of Bow. He is the second son of Rev. John Adams rrf 
Newington, and a descendent of Rev. Joseph Adams, who Avas an uncle of John 
Adams, second president of tlie United States. He was graduated at Yale College 
in 1849; went into the army in the war of the Rebellion as a private in Company D. 
Second N. H. Regiment; was severley wounded at the battle of Williamsbnrg, and 
was mustered out of service Nov. 27, 18(;5, as Captain and Brevet Major. The next 
year he went to Oregon. He was editor and proprietor of the Vancouver liegister 
at Vancouver, Washiugton Territory, for a number of years, and appointeil by 
President Grant Register of the Land Office. Subsequently he moved to St. Hel- 
en, Oregon, where he now resides and edits and puljlishes" The Columbian. He is 
an owner of much laud, and resides on a romantic claim called Frograore. 



THE POND AMID THE HILLS. 

This pond that lofty hills embrace, 

How pure and placid lies ! 
Uplooking to the heavens above, 

As if with human eyes. 

Secure from all the fierce wind's rage, 
It scarcely heaves its breast ; 

Though other lakes may toss and foam, 
This has a sabbath's rest. 

"When blackest clouds are in the sky, 
And tempest wild doth roar. 

It almost is as calm and still 
As when the tempest's o'er. 

For storm winds in their storms of wrath 

Will onward pass above, 
And leave it, like a gentle heart, 

That's shielded round with love. 



THE PRECIOUSNESS OF TEARS. 

Those pearl-like tears were never given. 

To shed for every trivial woe ; 
'Tis mockery that such gems of Heaven 

For common griefs should flow. 
The minor ills that haunt our lot 

Should not our tears, but smiles, provoke- 
Like clouds that Heaven's fair azure blot, 

B}' sunshine, easiest broke. 

Pride ofttimes makes its votaries weep 
For pomp, for equipage and dress ; 

They sigh in all the glare to sweep 
Of fashion's littleness ; 



JOHN BODWELL WOOD. 331 

To deck themselves in robes of pride, 

And flutter out their trivial span, 
Then brealv like bul)bles on the tide, 

Despised bj- God and num. 

Ambition's votaries likewise weep, 

When glor}' doth their grasp evade, 
Like shooting stars, that downward sweep, 

And into darkness fade ; 
E'en when tlie}' gain the gilded prize 

'Tis like a rainbow, that appears 
With glor}- to illume the skies 

And yet, — 'tis only tears. 

And wealth, how man}' sighs and tears 

Have for its paltriness been paid ! 
And toil through long and wearj' years 

Till life begins to fade. 
Alas ! it only can bestow 

The sculptured marble to declare 
That we have left our empty show 

And now must fester there ! 

But when our long-loved friends depart, 

Those pearl like tears that hidden lie 
Within the casket of our heart 

Should grace their memor}' ; 
O then 'tis nobleness to shed 

Those pearls upon their grave's green sod, 
For that sweet tribute to the dead 

Is incense unto God. 

But when o'er sins and follies past 

We weep and penitently pray, 
O then in Heaven is unsurpassed 

The rapture of that day. 
An angel conies — all light — all love — 

To catch the penitential gem. 
And bear it to the realms above 

To grace God's diadem. 



Joi)u 13oti\McU ffl2llootr. 

John B. Wood was born in Lebanon, Elaine, Dcceml)er 7, 1827. His parents re 
moved to Great Falls wlien he was very young, lie was eihirateil at the liistrlct 
bchools, an(lin llie Keniicliunk Acailcniy iii Maine. His tatlier ilesirecl he should be 
come a lawyer, and w illi that end in view put IJIackstone and Kent into his hanils. 
He took a liking to the limpid liuglish of the latter, and then was iudueed to enter 



332 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

a printing office and learn that trade. Subsequently he worked in the offices of the 
Dover Gazette, Dover Enquirer, Morning Star, and in offices in Concord, Boston 
and elsewhere. In 1847 he started the Thursday Sketche.r at Great Falls. Three 
vears afterwards he went to New York city and began his long career as a jour- 
iialist. He is attached at the present time to the editorial stafl" of the New York 
Herald. 



THE AVORTH OF BAUBLES. 

A sailor on an iceberg lone, 
Afloat within the frigid zone, 
Mid Alps of ice and icing snow, 
Where winds that chill forever blow. 
Sank, helpless, under torpor given 
By icebergs 'neath the polar heaven. 

And as he sank, he spied afar 

A thing that glittered as a star, 

And scrambling o'er the slimy ice, 

Grasped the great diamonds of rich price, 

And rusty gold, of value rare, 

The record of some shipwreck there. 

"Ha ! ha !" he cried, "and these shall give 
The warmth and bread I need to live 1 
These, these in princely hands shall gleam 
While I rejoice on fortune's stream ! 
But, heavens ! there are no princes here ! 
This, this is worse than worthless gear ! 

Were diamonds charred to coke again. 

And gold but fire. Promethean, 

Then I could make a royal turn I 

O, how I'd have these brilliants burn ! 

But, here are diamonds, icy cold ; 

Here is not warmth, nor bread, but gold !" 

In anger and contempt he threw 

Those jewels into ocean's blue. 

And sank upon the ice, and then 

Relapsed into despair again ; 

E'en while world's wealth lay at his side 

He sank, and of starvation died. 



COURAGE, FOREVER. 

What we do, let's do with boldness ; 

What we know, let's speak for aye ! 
And respect naught for its olduess 

If it be not right to-day. 



JOHN BODWELL WOOD. 33;i 

What is right, with will is power ; 

Truth is truth, and must prevail ; 
And true courage for an hour 

Often is of great avail. 

Naught is gained by coward groaning 

Under each mishap and ill ; 
Give us men not always moaning — 

Men of nerve and iron will. 

Firmly stand to Freedom's calling, 

Battling to defend the right — 
Fainting not though scenes appalling 

Startle others' timid sight. 



ONE FLASH OF LIGHTNING— A TELEGRAM AN- 
SWERED. 

The battered ship was nearing home, 
Still strong and brave as though no gale 

Had swept her decks with briny foam 
And strained her timbers, keel to rail. 

Then rose a hurricane, with seas 

That were as thunder when the}' broke 

Upon her, and her live-oak knees 

Were wrenched by each successive stroke. 

Yet with her masts and spars intact, 
She seemed a stanch, seaworthy ship ; 

So no sail hailed her, and in fact 

She might have made her port that trip, 

But one appalling lightning flash 

Splintered her statel}" masts and spars 

And sent them whirling, with a crash, 
Down on the superstitious tars. 

Then an abandoned hulk she la}'. 

Huge, black and spectral in the night — 

Forbidding even in the day — 
A solemn, most unwelcome sight. 

That hulk has since been on the ways, 
And then launched fortli upon the tide ; 

And now again she proudly i)lavs 
Her part with all her primal pride. 



334 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

?^arrict KebJcll iBaton. 

Mrs. Eaton 19 the eldest child of the late Dea. Ezekiel and Mrs. Mary R. Lane of 
Candia, born in Candia, Dec. 16, lSi7. .She became the wife of the late Harrison 
Eaton, M. D., who was for more than forty j-ears " the beloved physician " of the 
towns of Merrimack and Lilchlield. Dr. Eaton deceased Nov. 19, 1881. Mrs. Eaton 
resides upon the old hunicstiad at Thornton's Ferry, Merrimack. She is a sister of 
Mary Blake Lane, whose poetry is found upon a later page of tliis volume. 



BEATITUDE. 

Bright, coronal hour of a royal da}- ! 

When in his calm, cheerful, beautiful way, 

Caressing my brow, he will fondl}" say : — 

Dear child ! dearest wife ! why, 30U are my own. 

It is you and I, and the crowd are flown ! 

Let them go ! why, you and I are alone ! 

Why they are good, and we honor them all ; 
They may come and go, they ma}' rise and fall 
Like tides of the sea ; their love or their gall 
Is tlie same to me, since we are alone ; 
Dear child ! precious wife ! xny best and my own, 
And all but ourselves have fluttered and flown ! 

Into mine, look glorious e3'es of blue. 

Of Heaven's clear depths, the type and the hue ; 

It is Heaven, love ! for me and for 3"ou, 

When they all are gone, and the coast is clear, 

With nobody round, and nobody near 

Save two loving souls — wife and husband dear. 



MY MOAN. 

Upon my husband's anguished face, 
The tears fell faster than the rain 
Beating without against the pane. 

"Dear Love !" I cried, "one last embrace ! 
You cannot press my hand, nor speak ; — 
One sign, one word, I vainly seek. 

If j-ou do hear and love me now, 
Wilt love me through th' eternal years, 
Beloved, kiss me through the tears ! " 

Bathing his cheeks, and pallid brow, 
Kisses and tears fell soft : the rain 
Without, beat hard against the pane. 



HABBIET NEWELL EATON. 335 



Fond lips that met ; blest kisses, three ; 

Each sweetest, tenderest and best ! 

Dear hands, that clasped me to his breast ! — 

Love was glorified ; — turning me 
From the warm cla}', I knelt to praise ; 
His, " no more pain" through endless days ! 

I rose ; then sank beneath the weight 
Of my unutterable woe ; — 
Such alternations come and go. 

As was thy gift, my loss is great ; 
Grieving 'neath widowhood's dark pall, 
I bless thy name, but hot tears fall, — 

And, till the resurrection morn. 
Whose dawning shall dispel the rain, 
Whose glory break against the pane, 

Sweet Heart ! I, for thy love, shall yearn ; 
Would God that I this day might die ! 
'Neath the cold sod, with thee, to lie ! 



THE RAIN. 

When I was a child, and slept 'neath the roof 

Of the cottage on Maple Hill, 
It rained, and the rain had a peaceful sound, — 

Does it rain on the roof there still ? 

When I was a bride, and smiled 'neath the roof 

Of the cottage on Maple Hill, 
It rained, and the rain had a joyful sound, 

Showers of blessings on me still. 

When the other day I turned from his side, 
A widow ! lone, and heart-broken. 

It rained, as it rained when I was a child ; 
Was the rain, of woe, a token? 

It rained, as it rained when I was a bride, — 

It rains to-night on Maple Hill ; 
It rains on my heart ; it rains on a mound 

In the graveyard, gloomy and chill ! 

Neither child, nor mother, nor living soul 

Sleeps to-night upon Maple Hill, 
But the rain no doubt, has a pleasant sound, 

Falling fast on the roof there still. 



336 rOETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

And what of the sleeper under the sod, 
Who wed me upon Maple Hill ? — 

While Heaven's tears fall with mine, 'tis sure 
Heaven's love is enfolding him still. 

It may rain, and rain, and forever rain, 
Though a widow, and heart-broken, 

Of peace, and of joy, and of love, I know. 
The rain is a certain token ! 



OLD JOHN. 

Out through blossoming apple trees, 
Budding clover, and humming bees, 
Through fragrant breath of shining Morn, 
They've led a prince, a king, — Old John ! 

White daffodil, and barberry spray 
Wreathed his neck as he turned away. 
Firm clasp of loving arms up-spread, 
Drew quick to lips, the high, gray head. 

Through garden-gate I watched him go, 
The flashing tail tiu'ough currant-row ; 
Farewell old John ! and grief had waj^, 
Beloved ! up there ! dost see to-day ? 

To orchard-grave, b}' quiet wood. 
They've led the faithful, brave and good ; 
With sobbing heart I fly the spot. 
My ears, hear not the dreadful shot ! 

Oh, honest heart ! Oh, graceful head ! 
Oh, perfect feet ! Oh, cheerful tread ! 
Rushing mem'ries, tender and true ! 
Oh, gladsome rides, we've had with you ! 

Dear fellow ! you were one of three 
That happy were as we could be ! 
Arab steed nor charger of Don, 
Gay as you, old rollicking John ! 

Over highway, through wild and glen, 
J030US and fleet, you bore us then, 
No laggard drop in lo^-al veins. 
Though Doctor read nor held the reins. 

You had some playful, prankish ways, — 
Too queer to scold, too bad to praise ; 



WILLIAM COPP FOX. 337 



You never gnawed the pickets straight, 
Nor wrenched from hinges, painted gate, 

But like a sinner, laid about 
Old broAvn fence in lively rout, 
And oft made mouths at Doctor sly, 
As his soiled coat would testify. 

You knew the calls of round before. 
You stopped unbid at patients' door. 
Centaur might be a myth or true. 
One willing soul, master and j^ou ! 

Through toilsome sands, or driving hail. 
O'er Ferr}' dark, in wind and gale, 
In every storm, through useful years. 
Your awkward, friendl}' form appears. 

That shot the end ? — or, horse of fire. 
Speed you through Heaven his desire ? 
Is resonant its golden floor — 
With spirit hoofs — forevermore ? 



Wm. C. Fox resides in Wolfeborough, his native town. He was born December 
29, 18i"; gi-aduated at Dartmouth College in 1852; studied law and has followed that 
profession in Carroll County since 1855. For several years past he has been presi- 
dent of the Wolfeborough Savings Bank. 



TOM BROWN'S REFORMATION. 

One Thomas Brown, of 'Saukee town. 

Had gotten much infected 
With fragrant "slings," and such hot things. 

And his good wife neglected ; 
AVhile she, poor Kate, so delicate. 
Each sorrow seemed a crushing weight. 

Sat all the da}' dejected — 

Alone and unprotected. 

Now Kate was true as Prussian blue 

To all her nuptial vows — 
To serve and love, and ever prove 

A blessing to her spouse. 
But wept at night, as well she might, 
To see the graceless, fuddled wight 

Return from long carouse — 

And sometimes knit her brows. 



338 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

When woman's smiles and softer wiles 

Can no impression make ; 
When trembling fears and burning tears 

Man's purpose cannot shake ; 
When all her arts like broken darts 
Fall shiver'd from our stony hearts, 

Perhaps revenge she'll take — 

She's often "wide awake." 

And much I grieve, that Kate, one eve, 

Was quite enraged to find 
Before the door, with rather more 

Than "three sheets in the wind," 
One Thomas Brown, a drunken clown, 
Now staggering up, now tumbling down, 

Seeking his door to find — 

For Tom had "gone it blind." 

How Tom got in, let fancy spin 

The thread of that narration ; 
How on the floor he 'gan to snore, 

So let imagination ; 
But luck}^ hit of woman's wit ! 
Most surel}^ Kate, thy course were fit 

Example for a nation — 

Of wives and dissipation.' 

Thus Katy did : — a coverlid, 

As deep in sleep he lay. 
She careful rolled with many a fold 

About his torpid clay ; 
Then in it tight she sewed the wight 
(A sort of chrysalis that night,) 

And bagged him snug away — 

Tom woke to beg and pray. 

Morn smiled again, but Tom in vain 
With living shroud contended ; 

Cried Kate, "My dear, I'll starve you here, 
Unless your ways are mended." 

Tom felt the yoke, his pride it broke ; 

Repentant he confessed the joke. 
And meek his voice ascended — 
"Our revels now are ended !" 



WILLIAM COPP FOX. 339 



THE WOLFEBOROUGH CENTENNIAL, JULY 9, 1870. 

By an indigenous, indigent and indignant B.-ird. 

Old Town ! to-day, the records say, 
You've jogged along your temp'ral way, 

Through annual and biennial. 
Since first endowed with corporate name, — 
Lank ghost of Wolfe forgive the same ! — 
Till you have won the grizzly fame 

That crowns a ripe Centennial. 

Full man}' a one, now "dead and gone," 
Whose race within thee was begun. 

Loved e'en thy TroZ/'ish origin, — 
As erst the Ilian Twins the face 
Of Lupine nurse, — a "Roman case," — 
Till Rommy "hit" the ticklish place 

That Remus stowed his porridge in ! 

One hundred years ! Whj-, it appears 
As if with grateful smiles — or tears, 

We might just drop a penu}" all, 
And filing in behind a crate 
Of bon-bons march with steps elate 
To Millville Grove — and celebrate 

Our good old Town's Centennial. 

But thrift and gain are sued in vain, 
While avarice pulls with tightening strain 

The pucker of our purses all. 
And when our cits like Highland clan 
Should rouse and muster to a man, 
Of zeal or tribute one mav scan. 



How man}' a shade b}' sexton's spade 
Forever laid, to-da}' betrayed 

And cheated of due reverence, 
May writhe and twist beneath the stones 
That mark (and mar) where rot his bones, 
And supplicate in hollow tones 

From native soil disseverance ! 

'J'hen suffer rhyme like hops to climb 
And wreathe the century-pole of Time, 

With raspv leaves perennial, 
Lest all the founders of the Town, 
From Treadwell, Apthorp, Cutter, down 
To "Fiddler Jim," forever frown 

Upon our lost Centennial ! 



340 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

LINES, 

To my friends Worster and Gafney, Lawyers, on the presentation of a stuffed 
Red Fox. 

Brothers Worster and "Gaf. :" You have made me to laugh, 

Till my ver^' ribs crackle and shiver. 
While an ear-to-ear grin has distorted my skin, 

And the bile fairly "biles" in my liver ! 
Yea, I chuckle and shake, till ray viscera ache. 

In a sort of hj'sterical puzzle ; 
With hilarious grimaces wholly ruined my face is, 

But with fatness I'm full to the muzzle ! 

What a present (in "fee"), and how "foxy" to see, 

Is the yellow-e^-ed, sanctified joker ! 
How his craftiness shows — e'en the tip of his nose 

Is the synon3-me true of "draw-poker!" 
See the prick of his ear, and his chicken-roost-leer, 

And the "hang" of his caudal appendage ; 
Shod with puff-balls his "trotters" — neplus ultra of 'squatters," 

He's the Robin of leg-al brigandage ! 

The rascal, no doubt, in a way roundabout, 

Was a t^'pe of our legal profession ; 
The scamp was well "red," and had some length of head. 

And could make the *'fur fly" on occasion, 
From hens, hares and geese he extorted his "fees" 

With most sanctimonious dryness. 
And won reputation from each civil nation 

As the nonpareil emblem of slyness. 

For the gift, many thanks ! Could I turn fort}' cranks. 

With quick simultaneous rotation. 
Scarce a decade could serve, at the stretch of each nerve, 

To grind out my grateful oration. 
Reynard — Vulpes — 'Ax^uttiiI ! Among the white snow-peaks 

No more he will cuddle his fleece up. 
But set up in my doynus, shall be my mute Momus, 

And "mcjuse" 'mongst the fairies of jEsop ! 



OCTOBER. 

Let youthful bard his homage pay 
In idyls warm to flowery May ; 



WTLLIJJI COPP FOX. 34 1 



I, fondl}' sober, 
With statelier welcome greet the time 
Of ripening fruits in Eden clime, 
And pledge m^y troth in prouder rhyme 

To brown October. 

balmy air ! O happy soul, 
Bathed in this liquid aureole 

Of molten light ! 
O'er field and wood, o'er lake and isle, 
O'er distant hill and mountain pile, 

1 see the noon of Autumn smile, 

And bless the sight. 

The trees, like nj-mphs, enrobed in chintz, 
Bright fleck'd in myriad Tyrian tints. 

Their charms diffuse ; 
Not she such gorgeous drapery bore 
Through high Olympian halls of yore, — 
Iris, with all her dazzling store 

Of rainbow hues. 

Far on the blue of Western sk}-. 
Soft clouds in shoals of amber lie. 

Dissolving slow ; 
O'er orchards flushed and shocks of maize, 
The sun distils a golden haze 
From haloes that becalm the blaze 

Of days ago. 

Nor, Phoebus, shalt thou rule alone 
The season from th}' rub}' throne ; 

Advancing soon, 
In flowing veil of silvery sheen, 
Her scepter o'er th' cncbanted scene 
Shall sway thy night-dispelling queen, 

The harvest moon. 

Let younger bards of Flora sing. 
Sweet princess of the budding Spring, 

But, more serene. 
Of all the graces of the year, 
I choose, my heart and hearth to cheer, 
The brown -e3'ed Ceres for my dear. 

My bosom queen. 



342 POETS OF NEW HAMP8HIBE. 

J. M. rietcbei- was born In Halifax, Mass., January 14, 1828. He frradiiatcd at 
the Lowell High School in 1842, and came the next year to Nashua, where he settled 
and has resided till the present time, with the exception of a year in Mexico and 
California. He was married in 1851 to Miss Adaline Jane Eastman, of Kumney. 
From 1848 to 1854 he was engaged as a bookseller and publisher, and since the latter 
date has been in business as a manufacturer of furniture. He is president of the 
Fletcher and Webster Furniture Company, and the proprietor of the Xasliua Nov- 
elty Works. His life thus far has been a life of business activity, and he has 
turned to poetry rather as a recreation than from hope of achieving literary success, 
lie has been more or less engaged as a book and magazine writer, editor and com- 
piler. His first literary adventure was the compilation of the "Golden Gift," 
when eighteen years of age, which contained a half dozen of his own pieces, and 
had a sale of over 100,000 copies. 



TO ADALINE. 

When summer gilds the meadows, 

And meadows scent the gales, 
And rivers flow with murmurs low 

Along the verdant vales, 
When blossoms on the highlands, 

And blossoms on the lea, 
Reflect the ra^-s of summer days. 

How sweet to think of thee. 

I treasure thee forever, 

But oh ! when summer brings 
The birds, and bees, and leafy trees, 

I almost sigh for wings 
To bear my soul, exultant, 

Above the land and sea. 
And gather earth's divinest things 

For thee, my love, for thee. 

I hie to pleasant valleys, 

And sit by silver streams, 
And half believe the angels weave 

A portion of my dreams. 
So sweet to me is summer, 

So full of joy and glee. 
And sweetest of my summer dreams 

Are pleasant dreams of thee. 



ADVERSITY. 

The Father's love is over all, 

Compassionate and holy. 
The rich and poor, the great and small, 

The lofty and the lowly ; 



JO SI AH MO OD Y FLE TCBEJt. 343 

Adjusted to their various needs 

Are all his ministrations ; 
The wounded spirit never bleeds 

Without its consolations. 

Let us be patient with our lot, 

And hopeful of the morrow, 
Remembering there liveth not 

A soul exempt from sorrow ; 
And even should the cruel hand 

Of poverty oppress us, 
Its evils we can best withstand 

If hopeful hearts possess us. 

Contentment cometh not from wealth, 

Nor ease from costly living ; 
The best of blessings, peace and health, 

Are not of fortune's giving ; 
A happy heart dependeth not 

On fortune's fickle treasures. 
But rather seeks a lowl}' lot, 

Content with simple pleasures. 

The ways of God are just and wise 

To ever}' living creature, 
In ever}' ill there underlies 

8ome compensating feature. 
And when the lowl}- feel the rod 

Most sorely on them pressing. 
Full often is the living God 

Most lavish in His blessing. 



ANGELS BY AND BY. 

We should live as if expecting ^ 

To be angels by and bj', 
Everj' moment recollecting 

The immortal life on high. 
Where, in purit}' and glory, 

The angelic throngs above 
Hymn the never ending story 

Of the great Creator's love. 

We should live for something higher, 
Than to grovel here for gold, 

And to holiness aspire 

Like the sainted ones of old : 



344 POETS OF NEW HAMP8HIBE. 

We should live in the endeavor 
Human passions to control, 

And to hold the truth forever 
As the anchor of the soul. 

"We should live for one another, 

For humanity and right, 
True to God and to each other, 

And the soul's divinest light ; 
We should live for those in sorrow, 

On the waves of trouble cast, 
With an ever firm endeavor 

To be faithful to the last. 

In the narrow path of duty, 

In the shining path of love, 
In the purity and beaut}' 

Of angelic life above, 
Ever}' moment recollecting 

The immortal life on high, 
We should live as if expecting 

To be angels by and by. 



LITTLE ELOISE. 

It was a summer holiday, as bright as ever shone ; 

And pretty little Eloise had wandered forth alone ; 

For there were roses in the vale, and blossoms on the trees, — 

And hunting wildwood flowers was the joy of Eloise. 

In many a winding path she strayed, by bonny bank and stream' 
Until at length she laid her down and had a pleasant dream, 
And one as young and fair as she then took her by the hand, 
And led her far and far away unto a shining land. 

And there the fields were carpeted with fresh and dewy flowers, 
And there a golden light was shed thro' all the gladsome hours. 
And there such happy murmurs swelled from scenes so fresh 

and fair, 
It seemed as if a holy song was filling all the air. 

And then he led her to a seat, that little boy, — her guide. 
And said that he was Willie dear, her brother who had died. 
"And now we are in Heaven," he said, "and I have called you 

here 
To show how very beautiful its blissful scenes appear," 



JOSIAH MO OD Y FLETCHER. 345 

"It is your spirit that can see these wondrous things around, 
And you will wake and flndj'ou've been asleep upon the ground." 
'Twas thus that little "Willie spake, her little angel brother ; 
Half buried in the blooming flowers they blessed and kissed 
each other. 

And then a mist came o'er her e3'es, and waking from her dream. 
She felt the breeze upon her cheek, and heard the purling stream ; 
And running home, and staying not till she had found her mother, 
She climbed into her lap and asked, "Had I a little brother? " 

"For while I was asleep to-da}' he came to be my guide. 
And said that he was AVillie dear, my brother who had died ; 
And 'twas in heaven he said we were, and all was happy there, 
He told me it was always bright, and all its scenes were fair." 

"And twined within each other's arms we blessed and kissed 

each other, 
Now can it be that I had once so sweet a little brother?" 
Thus questioned little Eloise, with a delighted eye, 
The while her mother's filled with tears as thus she made repl\'. 

"Yes, darling child, before your eyes had scanned this worldly tide, 
Our precious little Willie lived, our darling Willie died ; 
And if I diml}- saw before that world so pure and blest, 
Th3' simple words, my child, have set ray doubts and fears to rest." 

And clasping then her darling girl, with mother love, so true, 
As if in clasping Eloise she clasped her Willie too, 
She seemed to see that bright world ope, and this one fade away, 
As did her darling Eloise upon that holida}-. 



RUMNEY HILLS. 

The rippling rills from Rumney hills 

Flow down to Baker's river. 
And how my heart with rapture thrills 

To see them flash and quiver, 
For there, along those bonny banks, 

Beside those sparkling waters. 
The maiden walked who won ni}* love. 

The flower of Grafton's daughters. 

How proudly stand the mountains grand 

On Rumney's rocky border, 
Upheaved by the Creator's hand 

In eloquent disorder, 



346 T0ET8 OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

But beauty dwells in all the dells, 
And e'en the mountains hoary 

Give lessons of the power of God, 
And glimpses of His glory. 

There cradled, lived the girl who came 

To bless my lowland dwelling, 
How much I love the brave old place 

My words are weak in telling. 
But like a picture of the bright 

Elysian lands of story. 
The halo of a deathless love 

Surrounds it with its glory. 



GOOD WISHES. 

Good wishes to the world I send. 
To rich and poor, to high and low, 

To false and true, to foe and friend, 
To one and all, good wishes, go. 

To endless summer's spicy vales. 
And frozen zones of ice and snow, 

Like perfume of the gentle gales. 
On viewless wings, good wishes, go. 

To lowly cot and lordly hall. 

To courts of vice and haunts of woe, 
To children taught, if taught at all. 

The ways of crime, good wishes, go. 

To mourning halls and bridal bowers 
Where grief and jo}^ are wont to flow. 

To convict cells and prison towers. 
With healing voice, good wishes, go. 

To slave and master, bond and free. 
To king and peasant, friend and foe. 

Whatever they may feel for me. 
To one and all, good wishes, go. 



MOURN NOT FOR ME WHEN I AM DEAD. 

Mourn not for me when I am dead, 
Turn gently back the falling tear. 

And rather let rejoicing shed 
Its kindly beams above my bier, 



J08IAH MOODY FLETCTTEIi. 347 

For grief is useless, tears are vain, 

The}- can not help the sleeper there, 
And, waking into life again, 

His soul the mourner's gnef may share. 

Mourn not for me when I am gone, 

Why did I write that sad word "dead"? 
They are not dead — the newly born 

Into a life we should not dread ! 
The spirit's freedom once attained, 

'Twill pierce the earth and cleave the sk}', 
"Why then, when more of life is gained. 

Do mortals weep and say, "we die"? 

Mourn not for me when I am free, 

Why did I write the sad word, "gone"? 
Gone from our loved? It cannot be ! 

The everlasting soul lives on, 
And true to nature's law will go 

Wherever led b}' inmost love. 
And seek the scenes of earth below. 

As well as fairer scenes above. 



THE SLEIGH-RIDE. 

The stars above are shining, love, 

The clouds are silver white, 
And we are all alone, my own. 

This regal winter night. 
Then nestle near without a fear 

That prying e^es will see, 
And we ma}* say whate'er we may, 

And none the wiser be. 

The winter skies with sweeter dyes 

Were never known to glow. 
And never steed with swifter speed 

Flew o'er the fleecy snow, 
And never night, however bright 

The starry dome above, 
Outrivalled this in joy and bliss, 

That now we give to love. 

The music swells from silver bells, 
And echoes far and wide. 

As over vale and hill and dale 
Right merrily we ride ; 



::M8 POETS OF NEW IIAMPSIIIIiE. 



But more to me than melody, 

However sweet its fall, 
Is woman's lace of winning grace, 

The crowning charm of all. 

Then banish care and fondly share 

This season of delight, 
For we are all alone, my own. 

This regal winter niglit ; 
And nestle near without a fear 

That other eyes will see, 
And we may say whate'er we may 

And none the wiser be. 



THE STOLEN KISS. 

Oh ! how my heart upbraided me 

When, in a moment dire, 
I kissed sweet Jennie's snow-white hand, 

O'ercome by my desire. 
And saw within her pretty eyes 

A rising look of ire. 

I begged she would not take offence. 

Quite overcome with fear, 
"Offence! why should 1 not?" she said. 

In accents low and clear, 
"That 3-on should kiss a lady's hand 

When — when her lips were near !" 



LINES TO THE AMERICAN FLAG, 

ON THE 4th of JULY. 

Thou glorious banner of the free. 

Flung out from countless quivering spars 
On hill and plain, o'er land and sea, 

M}' country's Hag of stripes and stars, 
What joy to see thy colors bright 

High in the heavenly arch of blue, 
Baptized in freedom's holy light, 

And to the star of progress true ! 

What raptures rise in loyal breasts 
To see tliose gallant folds unfurled. 

Divine Avith freedom's high behests. 
And broad cnouoh for all the world ! 



JOSIAII MOODY FLETCnER. .34*, 



What roj'alty around it clings, 
Victorious in so many wars, 

Surmounted l)y the l)ird wliose wings 
Soar nearest to tlie sun and stars ! 

O flag of hope ! what glories blend 

With every star, with every fold, 
Till heaven itself could scarcely lend 

More lustre to thy gleams of gold ! 
Wide as the world extends thy fame, ; 

And niilHons join in loud huzzas. 
And glory in thy glorious name. 

My country's Hag of stripes and stars ! 



THE PAUPER MILL. 

Yondor swings a gilded sign 

Lettered "Lager beer and wine." 
It were well if those who gaze 

Saw it as it should appear, 
"Wine that wins from virtue's ways. 

Beer that brings you to your bier." 
Or it might, with reason still, 

Read "The people's pauper mill." 

Stepping in, a gilded show 

Hides an under wave of woe. 
Here are gathered tell-tale lips. 

There is seen a tell-tale nose, 
Showing how the one who sips. 

Surely down to ruin goes. 
Though all business else is still, 

Blitliel}' goes the pauper mill. 

Hearts may break and homes may be 

Desolated hopelessly ; 
Grief and sorrow, want and woe. 

Crime and ruin, hand in hand. 
From the poison cup may flow. 

Desolating all tlie land. 
Yet do christian people still 

Tolerate the pauper mill. 



MOUNT WASHINGTON. 

With reverence and with awe we bow, 
Proud mountain of the North, to thee, 



350 POETS OF NEW HAMP8HIBE. 

Upon whose heaven ascending brow 

Is throned eternal majest}'. 
Can man, unmoved, thy glories trace? 

Unawed, within thy presence stand? 
Ah, no ! the humblest of the race 

Pa}' homage to our mountain land. 

How proudly, in the morning light, 

Thy walls reflect the roseate rays 
That on thy far ascending height 

Like banners of an armj' blaze ; 
How proudly when the sun ascends. 

And days meridian charms expand, 
Thy summit with the azure blends, 

Thou monarch of our mountain land. 

And when the clouds, with sullen gloom, 

To fierce and fiery conflict march, 
And belts of lurid flame illume 

The chaos of the heavenl}^ arch. 
More proudly still, amidst the fierce 

And flaming fury of the blast. 
With mail no fiery bolt can pierce, 

Ascends thy summit, grim and vast. 

The works of man — at best thej' rise 

The fleeting wonder of a day, 
Whilst thou shalt proudly pierce the skies 

Long as the sun and stars have sway. 
The boasted monuments of art — 

How puny when compared with thee. 
Whose fadeless grandeur moves the heart 

As mighty tempests move the sea. 

'Tis fitting that thy lordly height 

Should bear Columbia's proudest name, 
And keep forever green and bright 

The glorious record of his fame ; 
And towering o'er our fruitful land. 

Such love of freedom should inspire, 
As nerves the heart and moves the hand 

To guard it with a wall of fire. 

Around thee sweep the chilling blasts 
Of winter in his wild career. 

But winter's self a halo casts 

Around thy forehead, calm and clear, 



AUBIN M. PAYSON. 351 

And when the snows of winter melt, 

And creep awa}' in shining streams, 
Upon thy brow the lessening belt 

Of snow and ice with beauty gleams. 

Thy base, with summer foliage crowned. 

Invites the pilgrim to its shade, 
And there, as if on hallowed ground, 

His soul responds to Him who made 
The mountain's summit rise above 

The storms that roll around its base. 
And catch the gleams of light and love, 

A lesson to the human race. 



Eurin IB. ^^agsou. 

A. M. Paj-son formerly resided In Portsmouth, and more recently in Lymelleld, 
Mass. In ISW he, with Albert Laighton, compiled the "Poets of Portsmouth," a 
work of great value. 



SEDES MUStARUM. 

If thou would st love to strike the 13're, 
And wake the choral song of heaven, 
Believe not inspiration's fire 
Burns brightest at the dusk of even. 

But haste to where the laurels bend 
Their graceful boughs at morning dawn, 
And Nature's voices sweetly blend 
In joyous music o'er the lawn. 

In whispering branches o'er thy head, 
And laughing brooks beneath th}' feet. 
Around the graves of hallowed dead, 
The sacred Muses hold their seat. 

On hill-tops and in grottos green ; 
Amid the strife of tempests dire ; 
Or where we watch the nightly queen. 
Whose silver light sweet thoughts inspire ; 

Amid lone silence, deep, profound ; 
Up where no creature's foot hath trod. 
Or voice was ever heard to sound 
On mountain peak but that of God ! 

Within the halls of Memory, too, 
Where legends of the past are hung \ 



352 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 



And o'er whose tablets, waiting you, 
Are gems of beauty loosely flung ; 

In pattering rain-drops on the towers ; 
The heaving ocean's low bass-tone ; 
Beneath the grass, mid tiny flowers ; 
The sighing zephyr's gentle moan ; 

Along Piscataqua's sunny shore, 
Where sweeps the deep resistless tide, — 
Their echoes answer, evermore 
Down toward eternity we glide ! 

Out on those dark sequestered strands, 
When forms were transformed into ghosts 
In years long past, bright laurelled bands 
Of Muses strolled along the coasts. 

Could some clear panoramic view 
Of dusky olden time be given. 
And scenes of centuries lost renew, 
Beneath this deep blue vault of heaven, 

Perhaps those spirit forms might now. 
All floating toward the dark-blue sea, 
Be seen with garlands on their brow. 
Waking the harp's sweet minstrelsy. 



Samuel OTtofut Heeler. 

Rev. Samuel Crofut Keeler was born April 1, 1828, in Redding Conn., but was 
reared from early infancy in the town of Bethel in that state. He joined the New 
York East Conference of the MetJiodist Episcopal Church in April, 1853, and was 
ordained a deacon in 18.», and an elder in 1857. He has received live pastoral 
appointments in his native state, viz : Wolcottville, Colebrook River, Trumbull, 
Milford and Georgetown. He was stationed eleven years in the cities of New York 
and Brooklyn, and was pastor of four churches in those cities, one of them being 
the old, historical, John Street Church, the llrst and oldest Methodist Church estab- 
lished in this couuti-y. He was also engaged as Agent of the Am. Seamen's Friend 
Society and in City Mission Work for a time. In the spring of 1877 he was transferred 
to the New Hampshire Conference and stationed at Suncook where he remained 
three years. The third year of his pastorate of the church in Sunapee expired in 
April, 1883. In 1878 he published a neat volume containing a poem "In Memoriaiu" 
of Josie Langmaid. 



BROKEN-HEARTED . 

To blight a worth}- and virtuous name, 
A scandal, born of an envious mind, 

Was loaded full with a burden of shame. 
And given, then, to the wings of the wind ; 

And onward they bore the whispering breath. 

With the cruel message of woe and death. 



SAMUEL CliOFUT KEELEB. 353 



Clearei' and stronger it speedil}' grew, 
As wider and fartlier it wandered round ; 

From one to another it swiftly* flew, 

Till at last the scandal its victim found ; 

And her soul was pierced b}' the poison-dart, 

A reproach that was aimed to break her heart. 

Pure as the treasures of snow in the sky, 

Enwrapt in the heavens that gave them birth, 

And borne o'er the paths where the seraphs fly. 
Unstained by the touch of the soiling earth — 

Yet a sland'rous tongue had set her apart, 

To bear its reproach and to break her heart. 

And the world grew darker da}' by daj'. 
And her desolate life grew still more sad, 

From the heartless scoff of the rude and gay. 
And the cold distrust of the good and bad : 

Yet mutel}' she bore her sorrowful part, 

While cruel reproach was breaking her heart. 

From the scourge of tongues though bleeding and torn. 

To appeal for mercy to man were vain. 
And her cr}' to Heaven alone was borne, 

As she strove to hide her sorrow and pain. 
But the foes of her peace still plied their art. 
While reproach was surely breaking her heart. 

O'er full, at last, was the cup of her woe. 
And a sweet release to her soul was given ; 

From the scourging of evil tongues below 
She went to the "great reward" in heaven. 

As the fleshly walls were bursting apart, 

"Reproach," she exclaimed, "hath broken my heart." 



THE SILENT DEAD. 

He lay in his crib, where oft he had slept. 

And innocent joys o'er his features were beaming ; 

Like one who in slumber by angels is kept, 

To me did he seem to be sleeping and dreaming. 

Wishing 'twere thus, alas ! such was m}' thought ; 

And, "Willie," I call'd, but he answer'd me not. 

Four summers he lived, and soon they had flown. 

For joys that were new with each he was bringing ; 
Its light was his presence, its music his own : 



354 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

But husli'd is his music, that light is not shining, 
And sadly I miss him with the blessings he brought ; 
And, "Willie," I call, but he answers me not. 

I've stood by his grave, where gentl}^ they laid him ; 

Cold were the winds that o'er him were wailing ; 
But, deep In his sleep, where the frost has bound him, 

He hears not the wind, nor heeds he my 3-earning ; 
His name to my ear, by echoes was brought ; 
As, "Willie," I call'd, and he answer'd me not. 

1 dream he is near me : as upward I gaze, 
His beautiful form on the air is reclining ; 

O'er m}' sorrowing heart, and my darken'd days. 
His presence its light, its fragrance is shedding : 

He'll answer me now, so sweetly I've thought ; 

And, "Willie," I've caU'd, but he answer'd me not. 

I know he has gone, and safely passed o'er. 

To the land of the bless'd, where now he is dwelUng ; 

I've follow'd him down to the shadowy shore. 

His footsteps I've traced on the land he was leaving : 

There vainly I've wept, him in vain I have sought, 

For, "Willie," I've call'd, but he answer'd me not. 

Unseen are the things by faith I behold ; 

A cit}^ with beaut}' artd glory all gleaming ; 
Its gates are of pearl, its streets are of gold. 

And sweet are the songs that there they are singing ; 
There I have seen him, his strains I have caught. 
And, "Willie," I've call'd, but he answer'd me not. 

When before me the veil by death shall be riven. 
Changing my being, my grossness refining ; 

Then, organs like his to me shall be given. 
Seeing as I'm seen, and heard as I'm hearing ; 

No visions nor echoes my senses shall mock ; 

Nor, "Willie," I call, and he answer me not. 



Caroline IB. K. ^arlcer, 

Mrs. Caroline Eustis Parker is the daughter ai the late Edmimd and Catharine 
Langdon Roberts, of Portsmouth, where her early life was spent. In the year 1849 
she married Robert Parker, a lawyer of Delhi, Delaware County, N. Y., and she 
has resided in Delhi since her marriage; and has continued to contribute articles 
both in prose and verse, to some of the best periodicals in this country, and for a 
long while she wrote regularly for papers published in London, Eug:land. Many 
of her choice poems and songs have been set to music, by composers of no ordinary 
standing. Mrs. Parker has also published a number of books for children, among 
others, "Work and Play," "Stories for Little Ones at Home," "Wilson's Kindling 
Depot," and a small volume entitled "The Old Kitchen Fire, and other poems" 
published by the Am. Tract Society, New York. 



CAROLINE E. R. PARKER. 355 

OUR LAMB. 

Talce away the little baby, 

Folded in his garments white ; 
Place him in the rosewood casket, 

Close the lid upon him tight ; 
Throw the pall upon the coffin. 

Bear our little one away ; 
Leave me in m}' quiet chamber, — 

We have lost our lamb to-day. 

Bear the casket and its jewel 

Out beneath the open sk}' : 
Dust to dust, our little treasure 

With its mother-earth must lie. 
Heap the sod upon the coffin. 

Hide our darling quite away ; 
Leave me in my quiet chamber, — 

We have lost our lamb to-day. 

Let him sleep on, while the daisies 

Bloom upon the grassy sod : 
Leave him there, our fairest flower, 

Leave our darling with his God ! 
Ver^' lonely, sad, and heart-sick. 

On m}' bed I weep and pray ; 
Leave me in my quiet chamber, — 

We have lost our lamb to-day. 

Only three short weeks I had him 

Folded in my arras of love ; 
Then the Heavenly Shepherd called him 

To that other fold above. 
Oh ! I know m}- child is safest, 

Borne on angel wings away ; 
Yet my tears are falling, falling, 

For we're lost our lamb to-day. 

Bear him, angels, far above us, 

To the regions of the blest : 
No more pain, no sin, no sorrow, — 

Safe within the fold of rest. 
Throbbing heart-aches, tears of anguish, 

Let me banish you away ! 
Oh, rejoice ! tliough sick and lone)}-, — 

Heaven has gained our lamb to-day. 



356 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

God, in his good time, will send us 

Blessed comfort from above : ., 
He who wept o'er Lazarus sleeping 

Looks on us witli pitying love. 
Little lamb, in Jesus' keeping, 

Christ himself hath called awa}' ; 
Heavenly Shepherd, gentl}', gently, 

Guide our little lamb to-da^-. 



Mi's. Bo3'le was a native of Portsmouth, aud second daughter of Edmuml and 
Catharine I^augdon Roberts. lu tlie year 1858 she married Dr. James Boyle, a 
physician of New York city. She was a great invalid for many years, and bore 
witli wonderful patience aud Christian fortitude the severe suflering she was 
called upon to endure. She died on the 16th of March, 1868. Her life was an ex- 
emv)litication of the very "beauty of lioliuess." Her poems are of a very high 
order, many of them breathing a spirit of pui-e and true devotion, have become 
household words among her many friends. Mrs. i&oyle also wrote many books for 
children, among others, "The Stepmother," "Our Opposite Neighljor," and "The 
(iood Grandmother," issued by the Episcopal S. S. Union. Her books and poems 
had a very large circulation in this country, and many of them were republished 
in England. 



THE VOICE OF THE GRASS. 

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere 

By the dusty roadside, 

On the sunny hillside, 

Close by the nois}' brook, 

In every shady nook, 
I come creeping, creeping everywhere. 

Here I come creeping, smiling everywhere : 
All round the open door, 
Where sit the aged poor, 
Here, where the children pla}^ 
In the bright and merry May, 

I come creeping, creeping everywhere. 

"Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere : 

In the noisy city street 

My pleasant face you'll meet, 

Cheering the sick at heart. 

Toiling his busy part ; 
Silently creeping, creeping everywhere. 

Here I come creeping, creeping eveiywhere : 
You cannot see me coming. 
Nor hear my low sweet humming ; 



ABBIE HUNTOON MCCRILLIS. 35' 

For in the starry night, 
And the glad morning Ught, 
I come quietl}' creeping everywhere. 

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere : 

More welcome than the flowers 

In summer's pleasant hours : 

The gentle cow is glad. 

And the merr}' bird not sad, 
To see me creeping, creeping everj' where. 

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere : 

When you're numbered with the dead 

In your still and narrow bed. 

In the happy spring I'll come, 

And deck jour silent home ; 
Creeping, silently creeping everywhere. 

Here I come creeping, creeping everj'where : 

JM}' humble song of praise, 

Most gratefull}' I raise 

To Him at whose command 

I beautify the land ; 
Creeping, silently' creeping everywhere. 



attic l^utttoon |ttr(!!rinig. 

Mrs. McCrillis was born in I'nitr in 1828. .She resided in lier native town until 
she was married in lS.")lt<) Mr. William 11. McCiillis of Goslicu. Tlieir home w^s 
In Goshen until 1874 when they removed to Newport. 



THE DAISY. 

I am a laughing daisy, a-dancing in the sun ; 

The farmer trios to stop me as o'er his fields I run. 

The more he plans and ponders some means to drive me out. 

The more the people love me, and tote me all about. 

And little children love me, and we together play ; 
We're nodding in the sunshine all through the summer's day. 
They shower my pure white petals around like falling snow. 
And join in fun and mischief, as through the grass we go. 

Then what care I for farmer? with happy children's love, 
I'll spread his grounds all over, like white snows from above. 
I come in earl}' summer, and stay till dreary fall, 
Rejoicing in my favor ; for I'm the pet of all. 



358 POETS OF NEW HAMP8HIBE. 

I'm painted on a panel to fill an empty space ; 
Wrought into window shading, and in the finest lace. 
I'm on the richest satin, of every hue and shade, 
Of which the very loveliest of Christmas gifts are made. 

I'm woven into carpets in many a sweet bouquet. 
And here I bloom all winter, as brightly as in May. 
I go to church in summer on hats of dainty st^de ; 
I do not join the service, but bow my head the while. 

I go to balls and parties twined gracefully among 
The silver locks of sixty and golden of the young. 
I'm on the silver service, and on the china ware ; 
It's seldom you will miss me, for I am everywhere. 



Jeremiaf) fEams l^anftin. 

J. E. Rankin, D. D., son of Rev. Andrew and Lois E. Rankin, is a native of 
Thornton. Much of his boyhood was spent In Salisbury and Concord; and lie 
once taught the academy at Saubornton Square; graduated at Middlebury College 
in 1848 ; at Andover Theological Seminary in 1854 : has preached iu Potsdam, N. T., 
St. Albans, Vt., Lowell and Charleston, Mass., and for thirteen years has been 
pastor of the Fir.'^t Congregational Church of Washington, D. C. He is called the 
Radical Poet Preacher of the Capital. Dr. Rankin has a clear, sympathetic voice, 
and is one of the most popular preachers. He has published many hymns, poems, 
and sermons. A volume entitled "Subduing Kingdoms, and other Sermons," ap- 
peared In 1882. 



SLEEP HERE IN PEACE. 

Sleep here in peace ! 
To earth's kind bosom do we tearful take thee, 
No mortal sound again from rest shall wake thee ; 
No fever-thirst, no grief that needs assuaging. 
No tempest burst above thy head loud raging. 

Sleep here in peace ! 

Sleep here in peace ! 
No more thou'lt know the sun's glad morning shining, 
No more the glory of the day's declining ; 
No more the night that stoops serene above thee, 
Watching thy rest, like tender eyes that love thee. 

Sleep here in peace ! 

Sleep here in peace ! 
Unknown to thee, the spring will come with blessing, 
The turf above thee in soft verdure dressing ; 
Unknown will come the autumn, rich and mellow, 
Sprinkling thy couch with foliage, golden yellow. 

Sleep here in peace ! 



JEREMIAH EAMS BANKIN. 359 



Sleep here in peace ! 
This is earth's rest for all her broken-hearted, 
Where she has garnered up our dear departed ; 
The prattling babe, the wife, the old man hoary, 
The tired of human life, the crowned with glory. 

Sleep here in peace ! 

Sleep here in peace ! ^ 
This is the gate for thee to walks immortal, 
This is the entrance to the pearly portal ; 
The pathway trod by saints and sages olden, 
Whose feet now walk Jerusalem the Golden. 

Sleep here in peace ! 

Sleep here in peace ! 
For not on earth shall be man's rest eternal ; 
Faith's morn shall come ! Each setting sun diurnal. 
Each human sleeping, and each human waking, 
Hastens the day that shall on earth be breaking. 

Sleep here in peace ! 

Sleep here in peace ! 
Faith's morn shall come ! when He, our Lord and Maker, 
Shall claim His own that slumber in God's Acre ; 
When He, who once for man death's anguish tasted. 
Shall show death's gloom}' realm despoiled and wasted ! 

Sleep here in peace I 



IN SIGHT OF THE CRYSTAL SEA. 

I sat alone with life's memories 

In sight of the crystal sea ; 
And I saw the thrones of the star-crown'd ones, 

With never a crown for me. 
And then the voice of the Judge said, "Come," 

Of the Judge on the great white throne ; 
And I saw the star-crowned take their seats, 

But none could I call mj' own. 

I thought me then of my childhood days, 

The prayer at my mother's knee ; 
Of the counsels grave that my father gave — 

The wrath I was warned to flee ; 
I said, "Is it then too late, too late? 

Shut without, must I stand for aye? 
And the Judge, will He say, 'I know you not,' 

Howe'er I may knock and pray ?" 



360 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIEE. 

I thougbt, I thought of the da^^s of God 

I'd wasted in folly and sin — 
Of the times I'd mock'd when the Saviour knock'd, 

And I would not let Him in. 
I thought, I thought of the vows I'd made 

When I lay at death's dark door — 
"Would He spare m}^ life, I'd give up the strife, 

And serve Him- forever more." 

I heard a voice, like the voice of God — 

"Remember, remember, m}^ son ! 
Remember thy ways in the former da3's, 

The crown that thou might'st have won !" 
I thought, I thought and my thoughts ran on, 

Like the tide of a sunless sea — 
"Am I living or dead?" to mj-self I said, 

"An end is there ne'er to be?" 

It seemed as though I woke from a dream, 

How sweet was the light of day ! 
Melodious sounded the Sabbath bells 

From towers that were far away. 
I then became as a little child, 

And I wept, and wept afresh ; 
For the Lord had taken my heart of stone, 

And given a heart of flesh. 

Still oft I sit with life's memories. 

And think of the crystal sea ; 
And I see the thrones of the star-crowned ones ; 

I know there's a crown for me. 
And when the voice of the Judge saj's "Come," 

Of the Judge on the great white throne, 
I know mid the thrones of the star-crowned ones 

There's one I shall call my own. 



AFTER SNOW. 

FROM THE GERMAN. 

After snow, after snow 

Do the sweet-breathed violets blow ; 
Then grim winter is departing. 
And the emerald clover starting : 

While the lark mounts high, you know. 
After snow. 



JEBEMIAH EAMS liAXKIX. 361 

As God will, as God will ! 

Be it mine but to bold still : 
Sbould tbe clouds above me tliicken, 
Rain will but the grasses quicken. 

And God's treasure-houses fill : 
As God will. 

Hush my heart ! hush m}- heart ! 

Ease must interchange with smart ; 
Though thick troubles now enlbld thee, 
Let sweet trust in God uphold thee ; 

Look above : 'tis faith's high art : 
Hush, my heart ! 



THE BABIE.* 

Nae shoon to hide her tiny taes, 

Nae stockin' on her feet ; 
Her supple ankles white as snaw, 

Or early blossoms sweet. 

Her simple dress o' sprinkled pink, 

Her double, dimplit chin, 
Her puckered lips, and baum}' mou'. 

With na ane tooth within. 

Her een sae like her mither's een, 

Twa gentle, liquid things ; 
Her face is like an angel's face : 

AVe're glad she has nae wings. 

She is the buddin' o' our luve, 

A giftie God gied us : 
"We maun na luve the gift owre weel ; 

Twad be nae blessiu' thus. 

We still maun lo'e the Giver mair, 

An' see Him in the given ; 
An' sae she'll lead us up to Him, 

Our babie straight frae Heaven. 

* In the copy of sheet music publishctl by Ditson & Co., this stanza is inlro- 

aced HH a r.hovns ■ — 



iluced as a chorus :— 



Bonnie Ijaliic, clean and sweet, 
Now ye craw, and now ye greet. 
Nane but God can ever see 
What ye are to wife and me. 



362 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Silbanuis l^agtoartr. 

Rev. Silvanus Hayward, the son of Pea. Amherst and Sarah (Fish) Hayward, was 
born in Gilsum, December 3, 1828. His mother is first cousin to the late William 
C. Bryant. He fitted for college at home, and graduated at Dartmouth in 18.53. 
He then engaged in teaching; was preceptor of the Academy at France.stown three 
years; at Mclndoe's Falls, Vt., two vears; and at Pembroke one year. He was a 
teacher at Kimball Union Academy ,'and at New Ipswich Appleton Academy, one 
year each. Having been approbated as a candidate for the ministry, he supplied the 
pulpit of the Second Church in New Ipswich nine months. He was ordained and 
installed pastor of the Congregational Church in Dunbarton, Oct. 9, 1861; was dis- 
missed May 1, 1860, and installed at South Berwick, Maine, May 11, 1866, where he 
remained seven years. In 1873 he was called by the American Missionary Associa- 
tion to a Professorship of Mathematics in Flske University, at Nashville, Tenn., 
where he remained two years. For the next five years he was engaged mostly in 
writing the History of Gilsum, which was published in 1881. He was installed 
pastor of the Evangelical Free Church at Globe Village in Southbridge, Mass., Dec. 
28, 1880. In July, 1870, he delivered at Dartmouth College, a poem, entitled, "Brass 
and Brains." 



LINES AT SUNSET. 

Oil could I but fly with spirit-like speed 

On, on to the setting sun ! 
And still where the trace of his bright glories lead, 

In ecstasies follow on ! 

how would I bathe in the lambent light, 
And float in the floods of gold ! 

1 would bind my brow with the purple bright, 

And the azure around me fold ! 

I would rest on the wings of the white curling mist, 

The lightest the breeze ever bore ! 
By the sweet lips of Beauty my cheeks should be kissed, 

And to earth I'd return nevermore ! 



TO A SLEEPING INFANT. 

Little infant, softly slumber, 
Thee, while life in weeks we number, 
Worldly cares cannot encumber, 
Sleep on, my child, sleep on. 

Rest thee still, for while thou'rt sleeping, 
Thoughts of sorrow o'er thee creeping 
Cannot give thee cause for weeping. 
Sleep on, my child, sleep on. 

Life is coming with its troubles. 
Pleasures emptier than bubbles. 
Wealth that every sorrow doubles. 
Sleep on, my child, sleep on. 



SIL VANUS HA YWABD. 363 

Smiles upon thy face are beaming, 
Ra3's of glittering glor}- gleaming 
From the far off land of dreaming. 
Sleep on, my child, sleep on. 

Or do poets tell us rightly, 
That when infants smile so brightly, 
Angels o'er them whisper lightly? 
Sleep on, mj- child, sleep on. 

Let those whispers ever guide thee, 
Then, whate'er in life betide thee, 
Spirits bright shall smile beside thee, 
Sleep on, my child, sleep on. 

Short the time till life forsaking. 
Deeper rest shalt thou be taking 
In ''the sleep that knows no waking." 
Sleep on, my child, sleep on. 

Nay ! a glorious hope is given ; 
Lo, the bonds of Death are riven ! 
To the crystal dawn of Heaven, 
Awake, my child, awake ! 



FOR THE DEDICATION OF AN ALBUM. 

"Procul, O procul, este profani!" 

Ye who ope this book, beware ! 
Let indifference never dare 
Stain the page that now is fair. 

This is Friendship's holy shrine, 
Here Affection's tendrils twine. 
And from clusters of her vine 
Love shall press his golden wine. 

Freely quaff that sparkling flood ; 
'Tis the heart's most precious blood ; 
'Tis the only earthly good. 

Ma}' you, with those recorded here. 
Find its currents bright and clear. 
Unalloyed with bitter tear. 

And beyond these clouded skies, 
When the eternal morn shall rise, 
Drink it pure in Paradise. 



364 POETS OF NEW HAMP8HIBE. 

THRENODY. 

blessed Jesus, how 1113- heart is yearning 

To clasp the darhngs thou hast called away I 
With quenchless sorrow all my soul is burning 

To see, embrace, and hear them, if I ma}'. 
How sweet the music of their happ}' voices ! 

How dear the pattering of their feet at play ! 
AVith ceaseless billows all my bosom tosses, 

Lorn of the darlings thou hast called away. 

1 know that from all earthly storms defended 

Like tender lambs they lie upon thy breast ; 
No more they weep ; all childish griefs are ended ; 

Safe folded in thy loving arms they rest. 
But, Lord, my eyes are dim with mists of sadness ; 

My faith is weak, and darkness blots the day ; 
I cannot see the beauty and the gladness 

That crown the darlings thou hast called away. 

Lord, touch ray sightless eyes that upward turning 

Still fail with longing their delights to see, 
That healed and cleansed they may, with faith's discerning. 

Look on the mansions where the}' rest with thee. 
Let the dark pinions of this sorrow nearer 

Bring thee, O Saviour, to my soul, I pray ; 
Sweeter the richness of thy love and dearer 

Because my darlings thou hast called away. 

Shrouded in darkness, drinking down the bitter, 

Thy love can sweeten every scalding drop ; 
Thy smile can make the murky midnight glitter 

With the bright dawning of eternal hope. 
Through life's slow cadence nevermore forsaken, 

O lead me in thy loving steps each day, 
Till with thy likeness satisfied I waken. 

And find the darlings thou hast called away. 



T. P. Russell was the son of a farmer in Plainfleld. Having in youth hart the mis- 
fortune to lose a leg by amputation, he learned the trade of a tailor. He also taught 
penmanship and was a book-keeper for some time in the office of the Claremont 
Manufacturing Company in Claremont. His verses occasionally appeared in the 
newspapers. The piece given below was composed while he was tending the boil- 
ing of maple sap in the woods, it being suggested by the falling of a leaf. He died, 
while yet a young man, In 1850. 



CELESTIA S. GOOD ALE. 365 

LINES TO A LEAF. 

Whj' cling to thy parent tree, Old Leaf — 

When all thy mates are gone? 
Thou seems't like one, whom the phials of grief 

Are poured unsparingly on — 
Thou remind'st me of man, ■whose head is bleached 

By four-score winters and ten ; 
Whose kindred, the hand of death has reached, 

And turned unto dust again. 

Thou hast staid in th}- native place ! Old Leaf — 

Till time hath bronzed thy face ; — 
But soon thou must leave it, for time is brief, 

Ere others will take thy place : 
And 'tis thus with man — his childhood home 

Is the dearest spot to his heart ; 
He feels delight o'er its precincts to roam, 

And a pang of regret to part. 

Thou hast battled with many a storm ! Old Leaf — 

And in many a breeze didst pla}^, 
While Time with his sickle (a sly old thief,) 

Was reajjing thy kindred away. 
And man on the stormy ocean of time. 

With man}' a tempest doth meet, 
And zephyrs, wafted from sunnier climes. 

With odors delicious, replete. 

But the days of th}' glory are past ! Old Leaf — 

Thy beauty hath faded away ; 
Then strive not longer to bear thy grief, 

But fall to the ground and decay. 
So man, when his number of days is past, 

Will experience the common lot, 
When the angel of Death blows his summoning blast, 

He must die — be buried — forgot. 



OTclcgitia S. (Gootialc. 



Mrs. Goodale, a dau^rliter of John Mooney, Esq., of NorUifleld, was born in 1820. 
She was married to John H. (ioodalc, editor of the ^lanche.stcr Dvmocrat, in ISlt*, 
and died in 18B3. Slic was an apt and ac^coniplished writer, hirg-cly niclinjr lier huu- 
hand in Ids editorial work, a\h\ contributing many articlce to tlie Sprinptield C^as?-) 
Heimblican. 



THE WIFE TO HER HUSBAND. 

Methlnks the sun is brighter, dear, than 'twas a year ago ; 
The flowers wear a richer hue, and time moves not so slow. 



366 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

This earth that I have looked upon since first I saw the light — 
ISure it is fresher, lovelier, now, than when first spake from night. 

The song of birds is sweeter, dear, than 'twas a year this time ; 
The music of the flowing stream hath melody of chime. 
The sunset wears a richer hue than when I gazed alone ; 
The moon that used to look so cold has very pleasant grown. 

And sure the heart that worshipped thee, a whole year long ago. 
Still turns to thee, its idol-shrine, and burns its incense low. 
The world has naught to charm away, from willing worship given ; 
Wh}' should the spirit stoop to earth, that rested once in heaven. 

Our sk}' is fair, no sorrows, dear, have dimmed its glory j-et ; 
And in its blue, so clear and bright, there are no warnings set. 
Yet for all this we lie not down to sleep, when done is life, 
Without the drinking of the cup, without the bitter strife. 

Earth never held the favored one whom sorrow has not known ; 
Whose cup has not been running o'er with bitter draughts alone : 
And jet the cup our Father gives, shall we not drink? In vain 
The supplicating cry goes up, "Spare us, O God, this pain !" 

Yet why grieve now? Our hearts, my dear, will not grow cold 

in need ; 
We'll not forget the promise given when light was overhead. 
Its truths shall lead us on through life, an angel in earth-guise : 
Shall it not guide us to that land, — its home, beyond the skies? 



Mrs. Lund, who residea in Newport, is the wife of S. Frank Lund, and a daughter 
of the late Seth Chellis. She is a native of Goshen, and is known iu the literary 
world as Mary DwinellChellis. Besides being a voluminous writer of newspaper 
stories and sketches, she is the author of over thirty books which have had an ex- 
tensive sale. These books are found in nearly all our Sunday School libraries, as 
well as in many public libraries. Several have been republished iu other countries. 



THE BOBOLINK. 

Down in the meadow the rollicking fellow 

Singing and whistling from morning till night, 

Loudest and clearest when sunshine is yellow, 
Resting in silence when fadeth the light. 

Swinging so gently when rocked by the zephj'r, 
Pluming his feathers of sable and white. 

Daintiest dandy in earl}' June weather, 
Winning his mistress by song and by right. 



MAJRT DWINELL CHELLI8 LUND. 



367 



Apple blooms, filling the air with their sweetness, 
Tempt him to linger mid beauty so rare ; 

Short is his staying ; with arrowy fleetness 
Springs he exulting once more to the air. 

Grasses bend lightl}', and clover tops nodding, 
Greeting this songster of meadow and field ; 

Careless and gleeful, what knows he of plodding? 
Reckless of danger the future may yield. 

Music like laughter, or bells in their chiming, 
Rippling and ringing, half gifted with thought; 

Echoes of gladness with merrj' liearts timing. 
Snatches of jingle with melody fraught. 

Listen we often while wild bees are humming, 
Eager to catch the first notes of his song ; 

Hearing, rejoicing, we welcome his coming, 
Herald of summer and da^'s that are long. 



THE WATER SPRITE. 



List the water sprite. 
Calling all the night. 
Calling all the day ; 
"Hear what I've to say. 

"Come, je children dear. 
To m}' home draw near ; 
I will bring for 3-ou 
Roses gemmed with dew. 

"Come and dwell with me 
By the crystal sea ; 
I will scatter pearls 
Mid your glossj- curls. 



"See the bottle imp. 
Long, and lank, and limp ; 
See his bony arms, 
See his serpent charms. 

"With the chime of bells 
We will weave our spells. 
Till he cries at last 
'You have bound me fast.' 

"Then beneath the wave 
He shall find a grave ; 
While for you and me 
Mirth and song shall be." 



POEM. 



Affectionately dedicated to Lemuel Osgood on bis ninety-first birthday. 



The years, they are many. 
Full ninety and one ; 
This life grows a-weary, 
Its work almost done. 
Yet why should we sorrow ? 
Whj- grieve and despond? 
Tliere's light for the moirow, 
And glory beyond. 



Dear brothers and sisters 
Have passed on before ; 
Companions yet dearer 
Have reached the far shore. 
But glad are the greetings 
Where friend meets with friend. 
To join in the praises 
Which never shall end. 



368 POETS OF NEW HA^IPSHIBE. 

The roof-tree which sheltered Now bending to listen ; 

The mother and son Half wearied to know 

Is moss-grown and hoary The words which seem spoken 

With years ninety-one. So softly and low. 

The house in the heavens, Where worship the ransomed, 

Not builded with hands, All nations shall hear : 

The house that is waiting, Each song and hosanna 

Eternally stands. Fall full on the ear. 

The sunlight and shadow. Now moving so slowl}'. 

The mist's silver sheen, Once stalwart and strong ; 

On upland and meadow The footsteps they falter ; 

But dimly are seen. The march has been long. 

In city celestial. Yet pass through the portal. 

With pavements of gold. This life's work well done ; 

Forever and ever Youth's crown is immortal, 

New beauties unfold. Though ninety and one. 



Miss Brett is a native of Easton, Mass. Wiien she was ten years of age her par- 
ents removed to Gilmantou. Tlieir liome there was called "Elmwood," from the 
beautiful elm-trees around it. She graduated at Gilmanton Academy, and after- 
wai'ds spent some time at Mystic Hall Seminary, West Mcdford, Mass. From Gil- 
manton the family removed" to Concord, and a' few vears later to Newport, where 
their home was called "Riverside Cottage." For tnepast ten years they have re- 
sided in Boston. 



"BALL'S BLUFF." 

Oct. 21, 1861. 

Hear ye the moan of the wind in the trees ? 
Know ye the stoiy that's told by the breeze ? 

As it sweeps through the vale 

The leaf, withered and pale, 
And courser-like flies o'er brown hill and dale. 

Methinks 'tis the requiem, mournfully breatlied 
For names that come to us cypress en wreathed, 

Of the gallant and brave 

Who sank 'neath the wave. 
And found mid Potomac's dark waters a grave ! 

Oh fearful the tale, that's borne o'er the land, 
Of the fierce battle fray, the fight hand to hand, 

While a dark, crimson flood 

Of precious life blood. 
In baptismal drops on the green earth is poured ! 



MAR Y ELIZABETH FERG USON BRETT. 3(jy 



Alas for the j'oung brow, where Death's seal is set ! 
Alas for the veteran, for whom 6368 are wet ! 

Who have fought side by side, 

Who have gone in their pride. 
And for our bright banner have bled and have died ! 

Alas for the dear ones, for whom the tear swells ! 
And mournfully sweet as the cadence of bells, 

Is the memory we'll keep. 

Of them, as they sleep — 
Though in desolate homes, the mourner doth weep ! 

Fadeless the ehaplet, that crowns each bright name. 
Of glory and honor ! and deathless the flime 

Of that true. Spartan band. 

That Thermopylae band, 
Whose valorous deeds have thrilled through the land ! 



LINES WRITTEN FOR A GOLDEN WEDDING. 
Upon this "Golden W^edding" day, 

With J03-OUS hearts we come. 
Assembling friends and kindred dear. 

In the paternal home ; 
The home where passed life's sweet Maj'-time, 

Its glowing summer hours, 
Where Love a sacred shrine hath reared, 

Which Memory crowns with flowers. 

Within this home for fifty years 

Of changing light and shade, 
Affection's sunshine — sorrow's tears — 

Have grief or gladness made. 
For fifty years ! how long the time ! 

And yet how quickly' fled. 
To those who here have passed life's prime ; 

Our household's honored head ! 

Some sit not at the festal board, 

Whose names, in b3--gone hours, 
Have been familiar household words — 

They faded like the flowers. 
Our hearts their memories green still keep — 

The^-'ve onl}- "gone before" — 
When life is done, earth's parted meet 

Upon the other shore. 



370 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

And on this "Golden Wedding" day, 

Wliile autumn reigns abroad, 
While wind-harps breathe a plaintive lay. 

Our lips speak grateful words ; 
Grateful to Him who spares so long 

To us, the friends we love, — 
Oh may we meet to join the song 

Of shining ones above ! 



Mr3. Converse Is a native of Corinth, Vt. In 1857, soon after her marriage to Mr. 
P. M. Converse, she came to Lyme, whei-e they still reside. Her poems have ap- 
peared occasionally in the Christian Observer and in the Morning Star. 

STANZAS. 

Sweet Spring, why dost thou linger? 

O haste, and bring once more 
The gush of untold gladness 

Thou didst in days of 3^ore, 
When life's first dreams of hope and love ■ 
Made earth seem fair as heaven above. 

We breathed the scented zephyr. 
Where laughing streamlets plaj'ed. 

And heard the song-bird's music 
Swell joyous from the glade, 

In other da3's, when spring came round, 

With a delight that knew no bound. 

But since full many a sorrow 

Hath bowed us to the dust, 
And taught in earthly treasures 

How dangerous 'tis to trust, 
While Faith has soothed the spirit riven, 
B}' promise of a home in heaven. 

And in that home of beauty 

No wintr}' storms are known, 
But free throughout its borders 

Perennial joys are strown ; 
Still here to toil, and hope, and pray, 
Gladly we linger life's brief day ; 

And would in childish gladness 

Bless God for birds and flowers ; 
He formed and gives them notice — 



SAB AH 8. CONVERSE. 37 j 



Can aught place them 'iieath ours? 
Naj-, haste then, Spring, Ihy pleasures new 
Shall make our hearts to heaven more true. 



TRUE BEAUTY. 

There's beauty in the calm blue sk}', 

Its fleecy clouds of white ; 
There's beauty in the glittering stars, 

That gem the brow of night ; 
Yet nobler beauty in the soul 
That bows to wisdom's grand control. 

There's beauty in the day's soft close, 
When thought bright circlet weaves ; 

There's beauty in the gorgeous tints, 
That d\Q the autumn leaves ; 

Yet richer beauty dwells apart, 

In the warm sympathizing heart. 

There's beaut}' in the morning raj-. 
That steals the last night's gloom ; 

There's beauty in the mellow light, 
When shines the silver moon ; 

Yet beauty sweeter in the eye. 

Whose love-light checks the rising sigh. 

There's beauty in the rippling streams. 

And in the wild bird's song ; 
There's beauty in oeolian strain, 

AVhen zephyrs steal along ; 
Yet hoher beauty in tlie love. 
That foretaste given of heaven above. 

There's beauty in sweet childhood's home. 
Its each heart-cherished scene — 

The cosey nook, the shaded grove, 
The brook, the hillside green ; 

But 3'et, methinks blest heaven's clime 

Exceeds in beauty aught of time. 



SPRING. 

The spring has come with skies of blue, 
And birds and leaf}- bowers, 

And glad I wander in the grove, 
And breathe the breath of flowers ; 



372 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

Yet still a feeling stirs 1113' heart 

That seems akin to pain, 
While mem'r}' speaks of spring-time joys 

That ne'er will come again. > 

As jo3'ous flows the silvery- brook, 

Soft murmuring through the glade, 
As Avhen a child 1 gaily stole 

To this gi'een willow's shade ; 
Yet though as then I gaze around. 

And count earth's beauties o'er, 
In pensive mood I sigh for joys 

That can be mine no more. 

Once when this happ}' season came, 

And fragrant bloomed the spray, 
My gentle brother walked the vale. 

And blessed with me the May ; 
But now the wild flowers that he loved 

O'er him in beauty wave, 
For in yon church-yard low he sleeps 

Beside my mother's grave. 

'Twas on Ma}' morning sweet as this 

That he in calmness died ; 
The notes of singing birds were ga}'. 

Through flowers the soft wind sighed ; 
Yet when the love-light faded out. 

From his deep, mild blue eye, 
I felt a sickness of the soul, 

And wished I too could die. 

But springs have come and gone since then. 

And time has soothed my grief. 
And God has taught the welcome truth. 

Earth's sorrows all are brief; 
Yet oft, though gladness beams without, 

The da}' to me looks dim, 
And my poor heart yearns for the time 

AVhen I may rest with him. 



^Itcrt Eaisijtott. 

Albert Laightnn was born in Portsmouth in 1S29. He resides in tliat city, iuul is 
connected in business with the Rockingham National Bank. In 1859 he published 
a volume of poems, and another edition, enlargeii and dedi<'ated to his cousin, Mrs. 
Celia Thaxter, was issued from the press of John Wilson & Son, Canihridjre, in 
1»78. It is an elegant volume. Mr. Laighton stands in the front rank of New 
Hampshire poets. His poems are beautiful and liuished productions, and are 
widely known and much admired. 



ALBERT LAIGHTOy. 373 

TO MY SOUL. 

Guest from a holier world, 
Oil, tell me where the peaceful valleys lie? 
Dove in the ark of life, when thou shalt fl}', 

Where will th}' wings be furled? 

Where is th}- native nest? 
Where the green pastures that the blessed roam ? 
Impatient dweller in thy clay-built home, 

Where is thj' heavenly rest? 

On some immortal shore, 
Some realm away from earth and time, I know ; 
A land of bloom, where living waters flow, 

And grief comes nevermore. 

Faith turns my eves above ; 
Day fills with floods of light the boundless skies ; 
Night watches calmly with her starr}' ej'es 

All tremulous with love. 

And as entranced I gaze, 
Sweet music floats to me from distant lyres : 
I see a temple, round whose golden spires 

U nearthh' glory plays ! 

Beyond those azure deeps 
I fix thy home, — a mansion kept for thee 
Within the Father's house, whose noiseless key 

Kind Death, the warder, keeps 1 



FOUND DEAD. 

Found dead ! dead and alone ! 

There was nobody near, nobod}' near, 
When the outcast died on his pillow of stone — 

No mother, no brother, no sister dear, 
Not a friendly voice to soothe or cheer, 
Not a watching eye or a pitying tear, — 
Oh. the city slept when he died alone 
In the roofless street, on a pillow of stone. 

Many a wear}' day went by, 

While wretched and worn he begged for bread, 
Tired of life, and longing to lie 

Peacefully down with the silent dead ; 



374 POETS OF NEW EAMPSHIBE. 

Hunger and cold, and scorn and pain, 
Had wasted his form and seared liis brain. 
Till at last on a bed of frozen ground, 
With a pillow of stone, was the outcast found. 

Found dead ! dead and alone. 

On a pillow of stone in the roofless street ; 
Nobody heard his last faint moan, 

Or knew when his sad heart ceased to beat ; 
No mourner lingered with tears or sighs. 
But the stars looked down with pitying ej'es, 
And the chill winds passed with a wailing sound 
O'er the lonely spot where his form was found. 

Found dead ! yet not alone ; 

There was somebody near, — somebody near 
To claim the wanderer as his own. 

And find a home for the homeless here ; 
One, when every human door 
Is closed to his children, scorned and poor, 
Who opens the heavenl}' portal wide ; 
Ah, God was near when the outcast died. 



MY NATIVE RIVER. 

Like an azure vein from the heart of the main, 

Pulsing with joy for ever, 
By verdurous isles, with dimpled smiles, 

Floweth my native river ; 

Singing a song as it flows along, 

Hushed by the Ice-king never ; 
For he strives in vain to clasp a chain 

O'er th}- fetterless heart, brave river ! 

Singing to me as full and free 

As it sang to the dusky daughters. 

When the light canoe like a sea-bird flew 
Over its peaceful waters ; 

Or when by the shore of Sagamore 
They joined in their mystic dances ; 

Where the lover's vow is whispered now, 
By the light of maiden glances. 

Oh, when the dart shall strike my heart. 
Speeding from Death's full quiver, 

May I close my eyes where smiling skies 
Bend o'er m^- native river. 



ALBEBT LAIGHTON. 375 

NEW ENGLAND. 

What though they boast of fairer lands, 
Give me New England's hallowed soil, 

The fearless hearts, the swarthy hands 
Stamped with the heraldry of toil. 

I love her valleys broad and fair. 

The pathless wood, the gleaming lake, 

The bold and rocky bastions, where 
The billows of the ocean break ; 

The grandeur of each mountain peak 

That lifts to heaven its granite form, 
The craggy cliffs where eagles shriek 

Amid the thunder and the storm. 

And dear to me each noble deed 

Wrought by the iron wills of 3'ore, — 
The Pilgrim hands that sowed the seed 

Of Freedom on her sterile shore. 



EBB AND FLOW. 

I wandered alone beside the stream ; 

The tide was out and the sands were bare ; 
The tremulous tone of the sea-bird's scream 

Like a winged arrow pierced the air. 

I roamed till the sun in the west was low. 
And the robes of twilight trailed in the sea ; 

The waves pulsed in with a rhythmical flow, 
And a song from the woodland came to me. 

All day I roam b}' the stream of Song ; 

The tide is out, and my life is bare. 
While shadows of evil round me throng, 

And drearily croaks the bird of Care. 

But at night the waves roll back again, 

And flow in music over m}' heart, 
Till the dusky phantoms of grief and pain 

From the charmed shores of mj- brain depart. 



THE DEAD. 

I cannot tell \o\\ if the dead, 
That loved us ibndly when on earth, 



376 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Walk by our side, sit at our hearth, 
By ties of old affection led ; 

Or, looking earnestly within, 
Know all our joys, hear all our sighs. 
And watch us with their holy eyes 

Whene'er we tread the paths of sin ; 

Or if with mystic lore and sign, 
They speak to us, or press our hand, 
And strive to make us understand 

The nearness of their forms divine. 

But this I know, — in many dreams 
The}^ come to us from realms afar, 
And leave the golden gates ajar, 

Through which immortal glor}' streams. 



BY THE SEA. 

A waning of the golden lamps 
In heaven's eternal dome, 

A glimmer on the dusk^' sands 
(Ghost-like creeps up the foam) ; 

A blended hue above the waves, — 

The lily and the rose, — 
A fleecy cloud of dappled bloom, 

Like that the pans}' shows ; 

A tinge the morning-glory wears, 
With pearly dew-drops wet ; 

A blush as of the columbine, 
A tint of violet ; 

And ever in the brightening sky, 
Some changing splendor born. 

Till leaf by leaf, a perfect flower, 
Unfolds the bud of morn. 



FARRAGUT. 

Grand in his dreamless sleep our Admiral lies, 
The brave heart still, so fondly loved and blest ; 

The light gone forth from those prophetic eyes. 
The guiding hand at rest. 



BE LA CHAPm. 377 



His star in glory set — his great work clone ; — 
Muffle the drum, and toll the solemn bell ; 

And let the deep voice of the minute-gun 
A people's sorrow tell. 

A friend who failed not in the darkest hour ; 

A valiant soul who at his eountr3''s call 
Battled with treason born of hate and power, 

And triumphed over all. 

One noble life the less for Heaven to take ; 

One hero more passed from this land of ours ;- 
Lay fairest garlands on his bier, and make 

Death beautiful with flowers. 

A nation's heart shall be his funeral urn. 

While time shall add new lustre to his fame ; 

And Freedom's fires with holier light shall burn, 
Where'er is breathed his name. 



i3cla €i)apitt. 

Bela Chapin was bom in Newport, February 19, 1829. After learniug the trade 
of printer in the office of the Xational Eagle in Claremont he worked during a 
winter on the Northern Advocate in Wincliester, and a summer on the American 
News in Keene. He then went to Meriden and pursued a course of study about 
three years in Kimball Union Academy. He went to Concord in 1855, and was em- 
ployea as foreman in the office of the Crusader of Eeform, n temperance paper 
which afterwards became the Neu' Hamp^)iire PlumLr:. He was subsequiiiUy em- 
ployed m the job printing office of Morrill and SUsby ; in the State Capital Ilipnrter 
office; and for several years as compositor in llie A'. //. Statesman office. He has 
also worked as journeyman printer in Lebanon, on the Granite State Whig: in 
Newport on the. Araus' and Spectator; in Springfield, Mass., on the Independent 
American; and in "the "Old Stone Mill" of the Claremont Book Manufacturing 
Company. About 1860 he returned to his native town, and bought a farm where he 
rarried on farming business till 18(36, when he sold his homesteail and removed to 
Hanover, where he purchased the Dartmouth Press printing office of Rev. David 
Kimball, and the book bindery of the estate of B. I). Howe. In 1870, after dispos- 
ing of his establishment and residence in Hanover, he removed to Claremont, and 
purchased a farm near the base of Green Mountain, where he still resides. The 
events of his life have been imlmportant, and much of his time has been spent in 
his library. In 1881 he formed a design of collecting specimen poems of the New 
Hampshire Poets, and this volume is the reeult of his undertaking. 



THE REALM OF RHADAMANTHUS. 

Begemmed upon old Ocean's breast, 

Where gentle billows swell, 
Lie the feigned islands of the blest, 

Where souls departed dwell. 

Not in Cimmerian gloom profound, 
Where ebon niglit pervades. 

But in a realm where joys abound, 
Rest unsubstantial shades. 



378 F0ET8 OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

There in that clime, forever bright, 

The sun with equal ray 
Illuminates the tranquil night 

And gilds the cloudless day. 

There fields of asphodel and balm 

And roses bloom for a3-e ; 
There naught can mar the soul's sweet calm, 

And love finds no deca}'. 

There hero-shades with joy possess 

An ever-peaceful home, 
A seat exempt from all excess 

Where pain can never come. 

There where enchanting beauty teems 

In exquisite delight, 
Mid citron groves, by crj'stal streams, 

Walk chiefs of former might. 

O'er those feigned isles no storms prevail, 
No snow white-drifting there ; 

No raging blast, nor rain, nor hail, 
Nor pestilential air. 

There fragrant breezes, balmy airs. 

Pure offspring of the main, 
Sweep from the isles corroding cares 

And fan the lovely plain. 

There smiling fields afar extend 

In living verdure new ; 
There trees with fruits ambrosial bend, 

With flowers of every hue. 

There bright- winged birds, on every tree. 
Pour forth their dulcet strains. 

While mirth, and song, and dance, and glee 
Pervade the flowery plains. 

There Rhadamanthus rules in trust 

The realm of beings blest ; 
The brave, the noble and the just. 

The}' own his high behest. 

They who, in truth and virtue strong, 
From guilt's contagion pure, 

Did ever keep their lives from wrong, 
Rest in the isles secure. 



BELA CHAPm. 379 



There with the honored gods so dear, 

With them forever blest, 
They dwell, and pass from 3ear to j'ear 

Their tearless age of rest. 

The}' who were once o'er-fraught with care 

And bowed beneath the load, 
No heaviness their spirits bear 

In that theii' last abode. 

And thej' whose weary daj's were spent 

In pennry and pain. 
In sore disease and discontent, 

In hardship and disdain ; 

And they who were by scorn and pride 

Down-trodden and oppressed, 
In joyfulness they all abide 

Where woes cannot molest. 

And shades of men, the wise and good, 
Both old and young are there. 

Matrons and blooming womanhood, 
And youths unwed and fair. 

No toil is there, nor languishment. 

There no deceit beguiles ; 
There pleasure reigns and glad content 

Within those halcyon isles. 

No hurt nor ill that trouble yields 
Can reach that peaceful shore, 

But in the sweet elysian fields 
Is bliss forevermore. 

In such a place the Greeks of old 

Hoped alter death to rest, 
But earth doth not that region hold, 

Such islands of the blest. 



A GREEN MOUNTAIN LYRIC. 

Pleasant it is mid rural scenes to stra}-, 

In the glad quiet of tiie summer hours ; 

Pleasant it is in unfrequented way 

To walk amid the leafy woodland bowers, 

Where blossom to the air unnoticed tlowers, — 

Or in green fields and pastures, where the rills 



380 POETS OF NEW MAMPSHIBE. 

Flow over pebbles, fed by springs and showers, — 
And pleasant 'tis the wood-embowered hills 
To climb, for there serene delight the bosom fills. 

Among the cone-shaped spruce-trees, mid the fern 
That thickly clad the steep Green Mountain side, 
I climbed the zigzag pathway to discern 
The beautiful and lovely prospect wide. 
It was the season of the summei'-tide, 
A joyful morning of June's longest day ; 
And soon I reached the height, and there descried 
Objects of beauty, near and far away, — 
Sweet fields, and groves, and streams, bathed in the morning 
ray. 

There, 'neath the covert of a fragrant pine, 
O'ershaded with its whispering evergreen, 
Upon a mossy seat did I recline. 
In the enjoyment of each pleasing scene. 
Bland were the breezes, and the sky serene, 
With white clouds floating in the upper air. 
Which like aerial ships did glide between 
The sunbeams and the earth ; O, bright and fair 
Did all things seem, that day, around me everywhere. 

Adown the south, precipitous and steep, 
Untrod by man, sunk the declivit}- ; 
Rock upon rock seemed piled in wondrous heap ; 
And just below, a grove of greenery, 
Of giant trees, most beautiful to see. 
Filled a wide space, with boughs uplifted high. 
Which in the sunshine gleamed enchantingly ; 
It was a wealth of woods that stood thereb}', 
A sea of waving leaves, most pleasing to the eye. 

Above the woods I listened to the song 
Of many a warbler mid the boughs below ; 
Such notes of gladness from the feathered throng 
As oft I heard in days of long ago. 
So will it be in years that onward flow, 
And such blithe bird-song as I heard that day, 
And such fair flowers that round my pathway grow, 
Will bless or beautify the world for aye, — 
Will gladden and delight, when we are passed awaj-. 

In the low distance, through the fertile lea. 
There runs in winding way ni}' native stream ; 
A thing of beauty, ever dear to me ; 



BELA CHAPIN. 



381 



A river meet for an}' poet's theme. 
Along its banks unnumbered flowers teem ; 
Along its banks the spreading elm trees grow ; 
Its silver}' waters in the sunbeams gleam ; — 
O, stream beloved ! flow on, forever flow ; 
Of thee fond memories spring up from the long ago. 

And thou, Green Mountain, thou art ever dear ; 
Th}' drift-worn ledges, and th}- rocks of white, 
Th}' groves umbrageous, and thy fountains clear, 
Where oft in boyhood I, with fond delight, 
Hurried from rock to rock, from height to height, 
In admiration of each object rare. 
Sweet mountain scenes, for aye in memor}* bright ! 
I love them still ; I love the mountain air ; 
I love those rock}- hills, for there is beauty there. 



THE TRULY BLESSED. 

How blest, how truly blest are they 

Whose hopes in God abide, 
Who trust his goodness day by day, 

Whatever may betide ; 
Who in the Lamb, their risen Lord, 

Have built their faith secure, 
In Him whose promises afford 

I'oundation ever sure. 

If sore affliction be their lot, 

And much of body pain. 
Their (Jod will then forsake them not. 

He will their souls sustain. 
He heals the wounds that sin has made 

In souls to him resigned. 
He gives the contrite spirit aid 

And sanctifies the mind. 

For life's sad things and tears of grief, 

Which everywhere abound, 
Sweet consolation and relief 

In God is surely found. 
He knows our frame, and if in him 

Our hopes of heaven rely. 
Though all the joys of earth gi'ow dim 

He will be ever uigh. 



382 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

The path in which the just delight 

To walk leads not astray ; 
'Tis as a light that shineth bright 

Until the perfect day. 
God giveth grace, he giveth strength 

To all his people blest, 
And he will help them on at length 

To everlasting rest. 



A HYMN. 

O Lamb of God, who died for all, 

Thou who didst die for me, 
In penitence on thee I call, — 

Give me a hope in thee. 

Amid the vanities of life, 

Oh, keep my spirit free * 

From sin's allurements and from strife, 
And give me peace in thee. 

And may I oft in worship sweet 

Before thee bend the knee ; 
And do thou guide my wayward feet 

And grant me faith in thee. 

Forgive the wrong that I have done. 

Of whatsoe'er degree ; 
And give me grace, thou Holy One, 

To spend my days for thee. / 

Whatever ills my life betide, 

Whate'er is mine to see, 
Oh, maj^ I still in hope abide, 

And rest secure in thee. 

When my departing hour is near, 

Oh, joj'ful may it be 
To ci'oss death's stream devoid of fear, 

Upheld, dear Lord, by thee. 

I^iram Eatitr Spencer. 

H. L. Spencer is a native of Castleton, Vt., born in 1829. In his youth lie tauglit 
school in Unity and other towns in Sullivan Co. He removed to .St. John, Now 
Brunswick, in 1857, where he is a member of the Staff of the St. John Daily aud 
Weekly Telegraph, the leading newspaper of the Maritime Provinces. While a res- 
ident of this State he was a frequent contributor to the Claremont Eagle and the 
Kewport Argus and Spectator, and to Sartain's and the Knickerbocker Magazine, 



HIBAM LADD SPENCER. 333 



(tlicu under the Editorial supervision of Lewis Gaylord Clark) and to the New York 
Tribune. In .1850 a volume of his poems was publibhed by Philli])8, Sampson & Co., 
of Boston. During the last twenty years he has contributed to the leading periocj! 
irala in England and America, in prose and verse; Goldwin Smith, in the Xation, 
pronounces him the lirst of Canadian poets. In the spring of 188:1, he published 
a volume of travels, entitled "Summer Saunterings away down East" which i.i a 
work of deep interest and much value. IMr. Spencer's poems are tinged with a 
melancholy of which those who know him best understand the origin. 



FAREWELL. 

Farewell, farewell ye gi-anite hills 

That tower, majestic, prond and high, — 
Farewell, farewell ye tinkling rills 

That answer to the wind's soft sigh ; 
Farewell ye skies so deep and blue, — 

Ye white clouds floating gnil}- there, — 
Farewell ye hearts so warm and true, 

Whose friendship I am proud to share. 

Farewell ye rivers deep and clear. 

Entranced I've watched your silver tide, 
Farewell ye elms that proudlj' rear 

Your branches bj- the mountain side ; 
Farewell thou lake whose waters blue 

My fragile boat didst safely bear, — 
Farewell ye hearts so warm and true, 

Whose friendship I am proud to share. 

Farewell ! a fond, a last farewell. 

To hill and valley, rock and grove, — 
I've loved you all, I've loved you well, 

And ye have all repaid m}' love ; 
Farewell ye hearts so warm and true, 

Whose friendship I am proud to share,— 
I will not for remembrance sue. 

For well 1 know your love I bear. • 



TO MY DAUGHTER. 



A CHRISTMAS REVEHIE. 



The coals gi'ow brighter in tlie grate 

As evening's dusk}- mantle falls. 
And dimmer grow the eyes that look 

Upon me from these pictured walls. 

O, tender e3'es, that into mine 

From these gray walls have looked for years, 
I wonder if unto the past 

You turn, as mine turn, full of tears. 



384 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

Blind, blind with grief and vain regret, 
I press my head within my hands, 

And dream, sweet P^nie, that we walk 
Again npon the white sea sands : 

By willowy brook and ferny hill, 
By lilied lake and mountain hoar, 

Through groves of cedar, odorous vales, 
Where we shall walk no more, no more. 

Well, you have grown a woman now, 
And I have wrinkled grown and gray, — 

December ! ah, I feel its blasts, 
While round you bloom the flowers of May 

Heaven grant a better, happier life 

Than mine has been, your life may be ! 

The bells ring out, and how they dance 
Below, around the Christmas tree ! 



THE HADJI SAID. 

The Hadji said, "If o'er my tomb 
Should grasses wave and roses bloom, 
And if at times the spot should be 
Bedewed with tears at thought of me, 
My rest would be a blissful rest, 
And I would count the Hadji blest." 

No roses deck the Hadji's grave — 
He sleeps beside a foreign wave — 
And never woman's eye grows dim 
In that strange land at thought of him ; 
And yet methinks, the Hadji's rest 
Is quite as sweet as if his breast 
Were b}' a million roses prest. 
And woman made his grave her quest. 



SONNET. 

A quaint inscription of the olden time 

In letters rudely carved and choked with moss- 

'•'' Oar fear es are pueryle, our ti'uste sublime, 
Lyfe ys not gayne, and death, ytys not losse." 

Above the sleeper bloomed the fern and rose, 
As if kind Nature would such trust repay, 



HIRAM LADD SFENCEB. 335 

And there at morn, at noon, at evening's close. 
The birds sang many a sweet and soothing laj-, 
And there we fondly thought the orb of day, 
The moon, the stars, looked down with kindliest ray. — 

Ah, heart at rest, beyond the reach of ill ! 
Ah, slumber blest, and peace without anno}* ! 

Not vain thy quest to reach the Heavenly Hill, 
The Sunlit Land, the Emerald fields of Jo}'. 



SONNET. 

When Enon died, I cried, "O heart, for thee 

Nor sun shall shine nor flower e'er bloom again !' 
When Enon died, I cried, "As falls the rain 

Shall fall m}' tears through all the years to be !" 
But as he faded in men's thoughts, in mine 

The recollections of the past grew graj^ : — 
Doth it disturb that long, long sleep of thine 

That thou art thus forgotten? Enon, sa}'' ! 

I see the white sailed ships go down the Bay, 
Of warning lights I catch the rudd}- gleam : 

Upon my pillow wearily I la}' 

My aching head, and through the night I dream 

Of ships dismasted, that the ocean plough, 

Lost and forgotten, Enon, as ai't thou. 



SONNET. 

So you and I, with all our joys and sorrows. 
Will never meet in this wide world again ! 

We can anticipate no glad to-morrows. 

And no to-morrow's mingled grief and pain, 
'Tis true alas ! I know how vain, how vain 

Our aspirations are ! how vain our fears ! 

In life's stern battle, see the maimed and slain, 

And who for such have time for sighs or tears ? 
Well, it is well ! The world goes over and over. 

And we who smile to-day, to-morrow sigh ; — 
A marble monument or a bit of clover. 

No matter which, when 'neath at rest Ave lie. 
At rest, at rest ! and echo answers "Blest !" 
Blessed are we, for we at last find rest. 



C>Si\ POETS OF NEW HAMP8HIBE. 

SONNET. 

It may be thought my life hath been of sorrow 

Full to the brim I Of jo}' I've had my share ; 
Of grief I borrow, and of joy I borrow, 

Of hope I borrow, and of blank despair ! 

To me the sunshine is a cure for care, — 
To me the storm brings darliuess and distress ; 

The garb that Nature wears I always wear. 
Give love for love — for hate no tithe the less. 

I, with the happ3'-hearted have been glad, 
And with the sorrowiug I have sorrowed too : 

They dream who saj' that I am always sad, 
Or that my joj's are overpoised by woe ! 

But someliow we forget our joys while sorrows cling. 

And through the years we writhe beneath their sting. 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 

With eye suffused and heart dissolved with sorrow. 

How often I have fled the realms of sleep, 
And sought, not vainly, from thy page to borrow 

That which forbids or eye or heart to weep ! 
Thy "•Thanatopsis," fraught with tenderest feeling, 

Is like a June breeze to the ice-bound heart ; 
To us, tliy humble followers, revealing 

Tlie sage, the seer, the poet that thou art : 
Still roll "The Ages," still ''Green River" flows. 

And odorous blossoms load the "Apple Tree," — 
Into "The Lake" still fall the fleec}' snows. 

And Nature ever^'where, doth speak of thee. 
Oh, for a poet's tongue to name thy name ! 
But does it matter? Thine is deathless fame. 



WE ALL SHALL REST. 

The gra}^ birds twitter about the eaves, 
The May-flowers bud 'neath the yellow leaves, 
Green with lichens grow rock and wall, 
And the red buds burst on the maples tall. 

By brook and fen the willows bloom, 
And 1111 the air with a strange perfume, 
And here where the sun rests warm on the hill, 
The violet buds and the pimpernel. 



HIBAM LADD SPENCER. _^j^- 



Sing, for the Snmraer shall come again 
AVith its harvest of fruit and golden grain : 
Sing, for at set of the Autumn sun 
We all shall rest, aye, everyone. 



A HUNDRED YEARS AGO.. 

A hundred years ago the birds 

Were singing as the}' sing now ; 
The fields were flecked with flocks, the flowers 

Were springing as tiiey spring now : 
Men toiled as m'en are toiling now. 
And moiled as men are moiling now, 
And groped as men are gro[)ing now, 
And hoped as men are hoping now, 

And died as men are dying. 

One lived for love and one for gold. 
And dreams of fame beguiled one, 
One basked in fortune's sunny smiles, 

Another a reviled one ; 
The moon looked down tlie tale to hear 
That still deceives the maiden's ear. 
And slander wove her web of slime 
Round many a heart in that old time. 
When years, as now, were flying. 

A hundred years ago ! The graves 
Chat mourners wet with weeping, 

The plough hath furrowed— with their dead 
All those that wept are sleeping : 

Are sleeping as we soon shall sleep, 

jS'o more to laugh, no more to weep. 

No more to hope, no more to fear. 

Kg more to ask. why are we here, 
A-wearj' and a-sighing. 



LOVE'S BURIAL. 

AVith folded wings and folded hands. 
We laid him down upon the sands — 
The white sea-sands — one night in June, 
AVhile o'er us shone the full-orbed moon. 

AVe made his grave upon the beach, 
A rood beyond the surge's reach ! 



388 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

With buds and flowers of rosy dyes, 

We heaped his grave, — with tearful eyes ! 

You said, "O Love ! that he should die !" 
You said, '"O Love ! beneath the sky, 
Since Love is dead, what can remain. 
But sorrow, darkness, doubt and pain 1" 

We kissed the flowers that o'er him lay ! 
We wept the lingering hours awa}' ! 
The spot we haunted man}- a 3'ear, 
With blinded eyes and hearts a-sear ! 

Where love lies buried, 3'ou and I, 
Though far apart, one day shall lie, — 
Shall lie asleep — to waken not. 
Our losses, like ourselves, forgot. 



OLD. 



He said, "Are you older than I am?" 

And my dreams did the question destroy, 
For he called to my memory Priam, 

Hecuba, and Hector of Troy ; 
Is it possible I am as gray as 

This antedeluvian elf? 
That as far from me is the May as 

It is from December itself? 

I remember the home of my childhood, 

The home where no moan of the sea 
Ever chilled the glad songs of the wild wood. 

Or drowned the dull drone of the bee ; 
I remember, and it seems but a da}', too, 

A day of unrest and of pain. 
Since I left it ! O show me a way to 

The home that I loved so, again. 

The home that you loved so ! Alas, dear, 

A stranger you'd meet at the door. 
And they peacefully rest 'neath the grass, dear, 

The friends that you cherished of 3-ore ! 
You have dreamed while the years were a-flying, 

Forgettinnf hosv Time doth destroy — 
How living is blended with dying — 

How short is the life of a boy. 



EHODA 11. E. KENER80N. 389 



Mra. Kenerson was an only daughter of Richard C. Everett of Newport. She 
waa born Aug. 26, 1829. She was educatetl in that town, and became the wife 
of James M. Kenerson, who removed with his family to Wisconsin iu 1856. Her 
death occurred about 1877. 



TO A WHIP-POOR-WILL. 

Thou of the inoin-nfal melodj', thou of the plaintive strain, 
O wh}', through all the stariy hours, wh}' chant that sad refrain ? 
Dost never wake thy sad sweet voice to numbers blithe and ga}'^? 
Say canst thou sing no other song, save this one mystic la}'? 
Art thou some spirit brooding now o'er unforgotten wrong, 
That thus you haunt the summer night with dark)}' mournful song ? 
Hast done some dark unhallowed deed, that fills thee with unrest? 
Say, art thou doomed forever from the regions of the blest? 
That even in the tranquil night, and when the storm sAveeps by, 
We hear thy drear lamenting song, thy wild despairing ciy? 
(tO back to your green bowers again, O bird so sad and lone ; 
I'm weary of your plaining voice, your wild and moaning tone. 
It seemeth like an evil thing, your weird and boding lay ; 
Farewell, O sorrowing stranger bird, hence to the woods away. 



MOONBEAMS. 

Part the curtains from the lattice, open wide the cabin door. 
Let the silvery moonbeams enter, let them Hood the cabin floor. 
For I know that the}' are shining, as of old they used to shine, 
On that mountain-buried hamlet — on that dear old home of mine. 
Let them fall upon my tresses, let them fall upon m\ brow ; 
I am thinking, I am thinking of another time than now. 
Nay, now, do not light the taper, do not break the spell too soon. 
For, believe me, there would never in the glaring light of noon. 
Such a host of tender mem'ries, throng around m^' heart and brain, 
Of the happy da^-s departed, that will never come again. 
Haifa score ofyears are falling, from this world-worn heart of mine. 
As I sit and weave these visions where the pearly moonbeams shine. 
And my footsteps seem to wander, mid the haunts of other days. 
Where a phantom llirong is gathered, and, before mv eager gaze, 
Rise the old familiar faces of the cherished ones and dear. 
And I meet the olden glances, and the olden voices hear. 
Let the silent footsteps enter, let the haunting fiices come ; 
Let the cadence of their voices linger round my lowly home. 
For in}- rude and simple cabin, like a thing of beaut}' seems ; 
Like Aladdin's fairy palace, frauglit with my fantastic dreams. 



390 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 



5rimoti)8 ?|errg. 



Timothy Perry was born in New Ipswich, Nov. 7, 1829. He was educated in the 
schools and in the Academy of his ■native town, and 'vas afterwards teaclier of 
mathematics in the Academy. He studied law in Brooklyn, N. Y., where he is still 
practising Ills profession. 



OF MAY AND OF ME. 

She is an angel now, She is an angel now, — 

Resting at home ; She that was mine ! 

P^arth's weary paths, her feet Wreathed is her seraph brow 

No longer roam. With joy divine. 

But I am sad and lonely here, But I am sad and lonely here, 

With grief oppressed ; And nought is given 

Tlie way I tread is rough and But the poor solace of a tear, 

drear, And hope of heaven. 

I have no rest. g,^g j^ ^^ ^^^^^-^ ^^^^^ 

She is an angel now, Dwelling at home ; 

J)vvelling in light ; Soon may I too be there. 

Glory ineffable Never to roam. 

(Ireets her glad sight. Then no more sad and lonely 

But I am sad and lonely here, here. 

And faith's dim eye With grief oppressed, 

Sees scarce a single ray to cheer But in some bright angelic sphere 

The darkened sky. Forever blest ! 



TO THE ROBIN SINGING IN THE STORM. 

Why O songster singing sweetly 
When the eastern gale is high, 

And cold winter frowns so sternl3', 
Why so happy — tell me wh}- ! 

See you not 3-our bright hopes blasted, 

See you not the angiy sk_y ? 
Feel you not the icy tempest? 

Wh}^ so happy — tell me why ! 

Withered' forests, fields all snow-bound, 

Onl}- meet your wistful eye : 
Wh_y amid such desolation 

Why so liappy — tell me whj- ! 

When no sunshine smiles about you. 
When no sheltering rock is nigh, 

When no fellow-songster cheers you, 
Why so happ}- — tell me wh}' ! 

Thus I questioned of the songster. 
Singing when the gale was nigh, 



JOHN OnDEOXAUX. 391 



And cold winter raged about him ; 
Still he gave me no repl}'. 

But he taught my soul a lesson 

Which 1 may not soon forget, 
And altliough no words were spoken 

I can hear the counsel 3et : — 

When the skies are dai'k and lowering, 

When the furious tempests I'oar, 
I will smile and hope and labor, 

Hope and labor evermore. 

Joi)tt ©rtironaux. 

John Onlronaux, LL. D., was graduated at Dartmouth College in 1850, and from 
Harvard? Law School in 18.t2. He was lecturer on Medical Jurisprudence in 
Dartmouth Medical College from 18C)4 till 1873, when he became iirofessor of that 
branch of medical science. Trinity College conferred on him the degree of LL. D., 
in 1859. Although Professor Ordroiiaux does not claim to be "a poet or the son of w 
poet" yet the *ew poeme he has wi-ltten afford conclusive evidence of his great 
ability "as a writer of verse both In Latin and in English. 



SHADOWS OF THE TEMPTER. 

"Simon, Simon, behold Satan hath desired to have you, that he may sift yovi as 
wheat. But I have prayed for thee, that thy faith fail liot." — Luke x.vi'i., 31, '32. 

Some shadow crosses every da}^ 

The sun-path of our Christian wa}" ; 

Some shadow of the Evil One 

Pursues our steps from sun to sun, 

Intent to put our faith to rout. 

When chilled beneath the breath of Doubt. 

One shadow steals the threshold o'er 
Wherever Faith unbars her door, 
And brings the thought — what if in death, 
Tlie soul should perish with the breath? 
It is the shadow of J)istrust, 

How we can rise in Christ from dust. 
• 

Another, like a twilight haze, 
Obscures e'en learning's briglitest days ; 
The shadow of that sceptic lore 
Which doth an unknown God adore, 
Content, through pride of outward sight, 
To find in nature all its light.' 

Another whispers — ]\Iind is free 
To censure an unjust decree ; 
Behold, yoi) sinner's lot seems blest. 
While 'round him saints are sore distressed : 



392 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

How can we in a Ruler trust 

Whose judgments reason proves unjust? 

Thus sin forever in our breast 

Sows seeds of treason and unrest ; 

To make us gauge by finite sense 

Th' unfathomed depths of Providence ; 

And daily, with Satanic art, 

At Faith unguarded, wings a dart. 

Beneath such shadows shame that we 
Should let our faith thus vanquished be ; 
Like babes at night, in deep alarm, 
Though sheltered by a parent's arm ; 
How can we tremble in unrest 
When pillowed on a Saviour's breast? 

Yet 'neath some shadow oft I wait. 
Like blind Bartimeus at the gate ; 
Assured that when my Lord draws nigh, 
Sin, doubt, and darkness all shall flj'. 
Hence to His cross I cling the more. 
Whene'er these shadows touch my door. 

THE CHANT OF THE PILGRIM. 

"Thy statutes have been my songs in the house of my pilgrimage."— Ps. 119 : 54. 

A weary pilgrim, laden sore, 

I long to rest on Canaan's shore, 

Where I shall tread in dust no more 

Life's treacherous road. 
My cross at times I scarce could bear. 
Did not my Saviour's loving care 
Extend an heav'nly arm to share 

My grievous load. 

I see it not — for sight is dim. 

Yet know, through faith, it comes from Him 

Who rules o'er hosts of seraphim 

In Gocl-like reign. 
And somehow feel no earthly arm 
Could give such strength, or pour such balm. 
For I have tried each sov'reign charm 

Of earth in vain. 

M}' threadbare suit and sandals worn, 
From which the world recoils in scorn. 
He heedeth not — the man forlorn 
Is all He sees. 



JOHN OBDBONAUX. 393 

The sinner bruised is all He knows, 
Tlie pilgrim reeling 'ncath the blows 
Of Satan's darts — to such He goes 
To offer ease. 

For when in darksome wa3-s I've strayed, 
Crossed fens, or swollen streams, dismayed. 
Still o'er me shone, through gloom and shade, 

His saving light ; 
One single beam, so faint, so small, 
I scarcely knew it shone at all. 
Till I looked up, when lo ! night's pall 

Blushed ruby bright ! 

What if that light were veiled from me ? 
What if I lost ni}' chart at sea. 
And tempests raged and rocks a-lee 

My soul did fright? . 
O wondrous Love ! O Grace Divine ! 
O Star of Hope ! still on me shine, 
Nor this poor wand'ring soul consign 

To endless night. 

Full long my wear}' feet have trod 
Towards the great cit}- of my God, 
Nor have I fainted 'neath His rod, 

AVhen scourged b}' strife ; 
Full long pursued the Eastern star 
Which shines from Bethlehem's sky afar, 
Nor quailed before whate'er would bar 

The way to life ! 

^ Still, still unclimbed is Pisgah's height, 
Unviewed fair Beulah's laud of light, 
While age's fast descending night 

Doth on me rest ; 
Yet ne'er shall age nor time abate 
My zeal to reach the heav'nly gate. 
Where saints with boundless joy await 

The pilgrim guest. 

Lord ! help the pilgrim on his way, 
Help him, when weary in the fray, 
With trust unfalt'ring still to say, 

Thy will be done ; 
Then, howe'er stricken, aged, sore, 
I'll bear my Cross with joy once more, 
Nor rest, until at Canaan's door, 

My Ci'own is won. 



394 POETS OF NEW HA3IP8IIIBE. 

ODE FOR THE DARTMOUTH CENTENNIAL 
CELEBRATION. 

Hail Dartmouth — Mother dear ! Names that in church and state, 
Whom all the arts revere, Immortal fame await. 

Crowned with time's bays. And thine, in turn, translate 
Gathered from far and near, To ages gra}'. 

See, all thy sons appear. 
Fair youth, and patriarch sere, ^Prung from a kindred stem,; 

Hymning thy praise. Strive we to follow them. 

In high estate ; 
Not conquests of the earth, Lif^.g p^^th with deeds to strew. 
Is or hoarded wealth gave birth Endurincr ao-es throuo-h ; 

To fame like tliine ; To Chris't and countiy true, 

But wisdom dwelhng here, Whate'er our fate. 

lo mould each youth's career. 
For any part or sphere From mountains and from shore, 

God might design. We throng these halls once more, 

One hundred years of grace, ^ legion vast. 

Praise Him ! have changed the 0»ce more, as here we bend, 
place Our prayers to God ascend. 

Our fathers knew. May days to come transcend. 

The hoary wilderness Thy glorious past. 

Blooms in a Christian dress ; -r^ n t rrn li ^ 

Tlie muses' feet now press !^f ^^^l^ ; J^^^ '''f"'' '^''''' ' 

Where forests grew. ^^'5' "f ,^^^'^^ ^^'^"^1 ^^^'■^^'' 

° Earth knows, and sky. 

Forth from these halls have Wliat's one brief century 

passed Of thy great destiny. 

Names that were born to last To teach a people free. 

While time holds sway ; Their mission high ! 



GUIDE ME, O THOU GREAT JEHOVAH. 

EENDERED INTO LATIN. 

Me, fer, Tu potens Jehovah, Quum Jordanis ero vadis, 

Peregrinum in deserto, Ab pallente metu parce. 

Labor sed in Te vis tota, Strages Mortis ! Victor Hadis ! 

Forti, tolle me, lacerto. Me coelesti due in arce. 

Panis coeli ! Panis coeli ! Carmen laudis ! carmen laudis ! 

Pasce me per cursum ^evi. Jesu ! dabo cum vi cordis. 

Sit aperta speciosa, Meditans domo de nostro, 

Fons qilo lympha vivensfluat, Volvens sedes sacras coeli. 

Fac ut nubes luminosa, Replet cor cum sancto voto, 

Me per vitam semper ducat. Veni Jesu ! cit5 veni ! 

Numen tutum ! Numen tutum ! Vana tanti^m cerno, Tecum 

Esto mi, nunc vires, scutum ! Jesu ! maueam per aevum. 



SUSAX F. COLGATE. 305 

WHILE THEE I SEEK, PROTECTING POWER. 

RENDERED INTO LATIN. 

Donee Te, tutorem Patrem, In quacunque Isetor horft, 

Qufero, vana vota distent; Qnisqiiis luctus adventabit, 

Ilovam nunc sacrificalom Cor luudabit ad niajora, 

Meliores spes assistent. Oraus, ant se prosternabit. 

Haec divus amor putare Qnum Fortuna ml ridebit, 

Fecit nie. De Te putarem ; Tunc Tuam amorem volvain, 

Tu per vitam me tutare, IMutuni, nili me pigebit, 

Te, clementem adorarem. Me Tibi servum agnoscam. 

En ! Tua per cuncta patet Supra spectans, nunquani tlebo, 

Dextra regeus me securum ; Si tempestas ingravescet ; 

Fa bonum, mihi plus valet Forti corde, non timebo, ^ 

Cordi quod ab Te tributum. Nam, in Te, cor requiescet. 



Susan JF. (Colgate. 

Mrs. Colgate is a native of New Louilon, and an only daughter of tlie late Gov- 
ernor Antliony Colbv. She was educated at the academy in her native town, and 
became a successful teacher. Mr. Colgate is a lawyer of New York city. They 
reside at Yonkers, N. Y. 



NEW HAMPSHIRE HILLS. 

New Hampshire bills ! New Hampsliire hills ! 
Ye homes of rocks and purling rills, 
Of fir-trees, huge and high, 
Rugged and rough against the sk}', 
With J03- 1 greet your forms, once more 
My native hills, beloved of yore. 

Engraved upon my 30uthful heart 
With keener point than diamond's art, 
I see you when the world's asleep 
And memory wakes, with fancies deep, 
Visions of scenes, though old, still new, 
Then lost in dreams, 1 gaze on you. 

New Hampshire hills ! New Hampshire hills ! 
The electric sound my s[)irit thrills. 
With thoughts of childish ecstasies. 
And dreams of glorious symphonies. 
While now, as tlien, 1 sec you stand. 
Erect to guard our granite land. 



39G POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

I've watched you, at the early dawn, 
Before the shades of night had gone, 
Arrayed in robes of soft gra}' mist, 
Before the sun your brow had kissed, 
Then laj^ing this pure vest aside. 
Stand, nobly dressed in royal pride. 

I've seen 3'ou in the moon's full light, 
When every dell was brought to light ; 
When rock and leaf and crag lav bare, 
Sufinsed with gleaming, glint and glare. 
Then blent with tints that knew no name, 
Thy hues and dyes seemed all the same. 

I've watched you when departing day 
Shed o'er your forms a softer ray. 
Empurpling all 3'oiir verdure o'er 
With richer hues than e'er before ; 
Then touching quick your peaks with gold. 
Too glorious made you to behold. 

I've loved 3'ou when the moon's mild beams 
Shed lights and shades on hills and streams, 
Too strange, mysterious, dark and bright, 
For realms designed for human sight ; 
In silence then, I've stood amazed. 
And lost to all but you have gazed. 

New Hampshire hills ! New Hampshire hills ! 
The sight of you my spirit fills 
With raptures such as minstrels feel. 
When at the shrine of love the}- kneel. 
And all aglow with poet's fire, 
Strike with dehght the living \yvQ. 

New Hampshire hills ! New Hampshire hills ! 
Sweet peace and health 3-our air distils. 
As fresh as when the earth was new. 
And all the world was good and true ; 
Emblems 3'e are of ro^'al state ; 
Majestic hills, bold, grand and great. 

New Hampshire hills ! New Hampshire hills ! 
Your presence every passion stills, 
And hushed to peace I long to press 
F'ar up 3'our heights of loveliness. 
And stand, the world beneath m}' feet, 
Where earth and heaven enraptured meet. 



NATHAN FBANKLIN CAB TEH. 307 

Kev. N. F. Carter was born in Ilcnniker, Jan. 6, 1830. He graduated at Dartmouth 
College in 1853, anii was Principal of the High School in Exeter during nine years 
ending in 1H(!4. Iti 18(ir> lu' graduated at the Theological Seminary in Uangor, Maine, 
and was ordained, as a Congregatiiuial iiiiuisttT, in North Yarniouth in that state, 
where he remained tilliwi'J, wlien ho becaiiie pastor of a church iu Orford, and con- 
tinued there till IbTl. He then went to lielluws Falls, Vt., and in 1879 to Quechee, 
Vt., where he now labors. Mr. Carti'r has written many articles, ])oenis and sketches, 
for magazines and ncwspapei-s. He was, lor several years, one of the editors of 
the N. H. Journal of Education. 



IN THE SUNSHINE. 

On the suTiny side of life, for those that love me, 

I am gladly working, praying, still, 
With a kingly banner fljing high above me, 

Symbol of a Heavenly Master's will ! 
So with cheerful heart I bear my daily crosses, 

In the sunshine of my dail}' jo}', 
Never counting duty's self-denying losses, 

In such holy, sweet and blest employ ; 
For His presence brightens all the way, 
And I know I'm climbing up to da}' I 

In the shadowed valley, on the clouded mountain, 

On the dry and sandy summer plain. 
In the tangled forest, by the cooling fountain. 

On the shore-land of the roaring main ; — 
I rejoice to make my pathway like a shining 

Light of ever-gladdening, brightening ray, 
All around m}' gleaming footprints, gem-like, twining 

Love's sweet ministries to bless the da}', 
Wooing others up the sunnj^ slopes. 
Leading to the heaven of golden hopes ! 

On the sunny side of life I'm nightl}' lying 

In the restful arms of sweet content. 
With the self-same royal banner o'er me flying. 

Gemmed, like stars in the blue firmament ; 
And I smile on coming shadows thicklv foldins: 

Dusky wings above my pillowed head, 
For I know God's angels, ever holding 

Silent watch around my lowly bed, 
Guard me well, as guard the}' saintly throngs 
In the blessed summer-laud of songs ! 

Not that I am ever free from daily trials, 

Like the glorified to whom I go ; 
Not that on my head are never poured the vials 

Malice tills with bitterness and woe, 



398 FOETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Filling all my soul, as streams the heaving ocean, 

With the fretting, moaning waves of pain ; 
Not that e'er against me waves of wild commotion 

In their direst madness beat in vain ; 
Not tliat sin has lost its power to harm ; 
Not that life is one perennial charm ! 

But I know full well that all things work together, 

Under love's sweet ruling, for my good ; 
Know as well the winter, as the summer weather. 

Comes with blessing as an angel would ; 
So in ^'orking, resting, so in waking, sleeping, 

Wears this changing world a smile, or frown, 
I have trust in One who has me in his keeping, 

And with jo^- press upward to my crown ; 
So serene with sunshine, every day 
Passes, like some strain of song, awa}' ! 



GREAT THOUGHTS. 

Great thoughts in might}' souls born into life, 

Like towering mountains lean against the sk}', 
Their radiant summits far above all strife. 

Fixing Vr'ith wonder man^' a gazer's eye. 
So far above the common level rise 

Their morn-empurpled heights, they fill the soul 
With awe and reverence, till, in mute surprise, 

It deems them altars near the Eden goal. 
Whereon the incense of a great life burns, 

Diftiising sweetest fragrance evermore ; 
Or glow life watch-fires, blessing him who yearns 

For trusty guidance on Time's pilgrim shore ! 

The lowly one toils earnestl}^ and long 

To climb their steep but ever verdant sides, 
Yet, rising higher, he feels his heart grow strong 

To mount where evei'lasting spring abides ; 
To gather holier sweets distilling thei'e ; 

To see serener prospects yet unknown ; 
To breatlie a purer life-awakening air, 

And find himself a nobler being grown. 
And thus he presses on, till victor-crowned, 

Upon the heights, he, with enraptured ken, 
Drinks in the vastness of the scene around, 

A better man among earth's worthj' men ! 



NATHAN ,FItAXKLIX CABTEJR. 309 

And these great thoughts of mighty souls are ours, 

Stamped with a time-long immortality ; 
A gift ne'er growing old, whose greatness towers 

Above all gifts by gold or fume made free, 
We feast upon them, as on viands rare, 

And feel a newer life spring up witliin. 
They give the longing spirit wings to dare 

A loftier flight for good we fain would win. 
Their influence wakes a hymn of blessedness. 

Sounding a victor's prean in our ears, 
Whose sweet refrains, enshrined in good deeds, bless 

A plodding world, as stars a night of years ! 



IN THE BATTLE OF LIFE. 

In the battle of life do the best that is in thee. 

Climb up with a will and an eye on the stars. 
The noblest of names aspiring to wui thee, 

At the price, if need be, of perils and scars ! 
There is room in the radiant spaces above thee ; 

On the tops of the mountains are conquerors' palms ; 
Live grandly for God, — make the great world love thee, 

For the sowing of sunshine and giving of alms ! 

Grow virtues and graces to ripen for glory ; 

Seek riches and honors that pass not away ; 
With manifold blessings make golden life's story ; 

For the good of humanity labor and pra}' ! 
Be a peer and a prince in the grace of ibrgiving ; 

Keep ever to pHth\va3"s the saintly have trod ; 
In love with tlie good, be the best of the living ; 

Do the best for the world by the favor of God ! 

With a bold, brave heart, and a holy endeavor. 

Girt surely and well with an armor divine, 
Press on to the conflict, surrendering never 

To the foes that confront thee in darkening line ! 
What is servile and grovelling heartily scorning, 

With an eye on the prize, not a moment delay, 
But valiantly press to the Gates of the Morning, 

And live in its fulness of glory for aye ! 



LOVING HEARTS. 

A pleasant sight are clear blue skies, 
When soft winds cheer us on to duty ; 



400 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

Above, glad visions for the ej-es, 
Around, a world of growing beauty. 

The world is wide, the world is briglit, 
O tell to all the storj', 

The world is full of living light, 
The world is full of glory ! 

A merry heart and smiling face 

Are better far than sunny weather ; 
A noble life and forms of grace. 

Like leaves and flowers, grow well together. 
The world is dark, the world is cold, 

O tell to all the storj^ 
But loving hearts in 3'oung or old, 

Can fringe its night with glorj ! 



iStrna Bean ^^roctor. 

Mi63 Proctor iB a native of Henniker.' On completing her school education she 
made Brooklyn, N. Y., her home, where she still resides. A volume of her poems, 
published in 18G7, fixed her rank amongst the foremost of American female poets. 
She has travelleil extensively in Europe, Syria, and Russia, and has ascended the 
Nile. An account of her travels in Russia was published In 1873. 



THE MOUNTAIN MAID. 

O the Mountain Maid, New Hampshire ! 

Her steps are light and free, 
Whether she treads the loftj' heights 

Or follows the brooks to the sea ! 
•Her eyes are clear as the skies that hang 

Over her hills of snow, 
And her hair is dark as the densest sliade 

That falls where the fir-trees grow — 
The fir-trees, slender and somber. 

That climb from the vales below. 

Sweet is her voice as the robin's, 

In a lull of the wind of March, 
Wooing the shy arbutus 

At the roots of the budding larch ; 
And rich as the ravishing echoes 

On still Franconia's Lake, 
When the boatman winds his magic horn. 

And the tongues of the wood awake. 
While the huge Stone Face forgets to frown 

And the hare peeps out of the brake. 



EDXA DEAX PBOCTOIi. _ <101 

The blasts of drear}' December 

But brighten the bloom on her cheek, 
And the snows rear her statelier temples 

Than to goddess were built hy the Greek. 
She welcomes the fervid summer, 

And flies to the sounding shore 
"Where bleak Boar's Head looks seaward, 

Set in the billows' roar, 
And dreams of her sailors and fishers 

Till cool daN's come once more. 

Then how fair is the Maiden, 

Crowned with the scarlet leaves, 
And wrapped in the tender, mistj' veil 

That Indian Summer weaves ! 
While the aster blue, and the golden-rod, 

And immortelles, clustering sweet, 
From Canada down to the sea have spread 

A carpet for her feet ; 
And the faint witch-hazel buds unfold. 

Her latest smile to greet. 

She loves the song of the reapers. 

The ring of the woodman's steel. 
The whirr of the glancing shuttle, 

The rush of the tireless wheel. 
But, if war befalls, her sons she calls 

From mill and forge and lea, 
And bids them uphold her banner 

Till the laud from strife is free ; 
And she hews her oaks into vengeful ships 

That sweep the foe from the sea. 

O the Mountain Maid, New Hampshire ! 

For beauty and wit and will 
I'll mate her to-da}' with the fairest 

That rules over plain or hill ! 
New York is a princess in purple, 

B}' the gems of her cities crowned ; 
Illinois with the garland of Ceres 

Her tresses of gold has bound — 
QueCn of the limitless prairies, 

Whose great sheaves heap the ground ; 

And out by the far Pacific, 

Their gay young sisters say, 
"Ours are the mines of the Indies 
And the treasures of broad Cathay 



,. .'> 



402 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 



And the daraes of the South walk proudly, 
Where the fig and the orange fall, 

And, hid in the high magnolias, 
The mocking thrushes call ; 

But the Mountain Maid, New Hampshire, 
Is the rarest of them all I 



NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Written for, and read on the occasion of the Bi-Centennial celebration of tho 
Settlement of the State of New : Hampshire, by the New Hampshire Historical 
Society, at the State Capitol, Concord, May 22, 1873. 

"A goodly realm !" said Captain Smith, 
Scanning the coast by the Isles of Shoals, 
While the wind blew fair, as in Indian myth 
Blows the breeze from the Land of Souls ; 
Blew from the marshes of Hampton spread 
Level and green that summer day, 
And over the brow of Great Boar's Head, 
From the pines that stretched to the west away ; 
And sunset died on the rippling sea, 
Ere to the south with the wind sailed he. 
But he told the story in London streets. 
And again to court and prince and king ; 
"A truce," men cried, "to Virginia heats ; 
The North is the land of hope and spring !" 
And in sixteen hundred and twent3'-three, 
For Dover meadows and Portsmouth river, 
Bold and earnest they crossed the sea. 
And the realm was theirs and ours forever ! 

Up from the floods of Piscataqua, 

Slowh', slowly the}' made their way 

Back to the Merrimack's eager tide. 

Poured through its meadows rich and wide ; 

And the river that runs like a jo3-ous brook — 

Monadnock's darling, the Contoocook ; — 

And westward turned for the warmer gales 

And the wealth of Connecticut's intervales ; 

And to Winnipesaukee's tranquil sea. 

Bosomed in hills and bright with isles 

Where the alder grows and the dark pine-tree, 

And the tired wind sleeps and the sunlight smiles ; 

Up and on to the mountains piled, 

Peak o'er peak, in the northern air. 

Home of streams and of winds that wild 



EDNA DEAN FliOCTOR. 403 

Torrent and tempest valeward bear, — 

Where the Great Slone Face looius changeless, cahn 

As the Si)hinx that conches on E<2,ji)t's sands, 

And the t\v and the sassafras yield their balm 

Sweet as the odors of Morning lands ; 

Where the eagle floats in the summer noon, 

While his comrade clouds drift, silent, by, 

And the waters fill with a mystic tune 

The fane the clilfs have built to the sky ! 

And, beyond, to the woods where the huge moose browsed. 

And the dun deer drank at the rill, unroused 

B}- hound or horn, and the partridge brood 

Was alone in the leafy solitude ; 

And the lake where the beaver housed her youno^, 

And the loon's shrill cr\' from the border run"-, 

The lake whence the beauteous river flows, 

Its fountains fed bj- Canadian snows. 

What were the Labors of Hercules 

To the toils of heroes such as these ? — 

Guarding their homes from Savage foes 

Cruel as fiends in craft and scorn ; 

Felling the forest with mightj- blows ; 

Planting the meadow plots with corn ; 

Hunting the hungry wolf to his lair ; 

Trapping the panther and prowling bear ; 

Bridging the river ; building the mill 

Where the stream had leapt at its frolic will ; 

Rearing, in faith by sorrow tried. 

The church and the school-house, side by side ; 

Fighting the French on the long frontier, 

From Louisburg, set in the sea's domains, 

To proud Quebec and the woods that hear 

Ohio glide to the sunset plains ; 

And when rest and comfort they yearned to see, 

Risking their all to be nobl}' i'rec ! 

Honor and love for the valiant Dead ! 

With reverent breath let their names be read, — 

Hiltons, Pepperells, Sullivans, Weares, 

Broad is the scroll the list that bears 

Of men as ardent and brave and true 

As ever land in its peril knew, 

And women of pure and glowing lives. 

Meet to be heroes' mothers and wives ! 

For not alone for the golden maize, 

And the fisher's spoils from the teeming baj's, 



404 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

And the treasures of forest, and hill, and mine, 

They gave their barks to the stormy brine, — 

I-iibert}', learning, righteous law 

Shone in the vision they dimly saw 

Of the age to come and the land to be ; 

And, looking to heaven, ferventl}' 

Tliey labored and longed through the dawning gray 

For the blessed break of that larger day. 

When the wail of Harvard in sore distress 

Came to. their ears through the wilderness, — 

Harvard, the hope of the Colonies twain, 

Planted with praj-ers by the lonely main — 

It was loyal, struggling Portsmouth town 

That sent this gracious message down : 

"Wishing our gratitude to prove. 

And the countr}' and general court to move 

For the infant college beset with fears, 

("Its loss an o:r.en of ill would be !) 

We promise to paj- it, for seven years, 

Sixty pounds sterling, an annual sum. 

Trusting that fullei' aid will come," — 

And the court and the country heard their plea. 

And the sapling grew to the wide-boughed tree. 

And when a century had fled. 

And the war for freedom thrilled with dread 

Yet welcome summons ever}' home, — 

B3* the fire-lit hearth, 'neath the starrj- dome. 

The}' vowed that never their love should wane 

For the holy cause they burned to gain. 

Till right should rule, and the strife be done ! 

List to the generous deed of one : — 

In the Revolution's darkest days 

The legislature at Exeter met ; 

Mone}' and men they fain would raise, 

And despair on every face was set 

As news of the army's need was read ; 

Then, in the hush, John Langdon said : 

"Three thousand dollars have I in gold ; 

For as much I will pledge the plate I hold ; 

Eighty casks of Tobago rum ; 

All is the country's. The time will come, 

If we conquer, when amply the debt she'll pay ; 

If we fail, our property's worthless." A rav 

Of hope cheered the gloom, while the Governor said 

"For a regiment now, with Stark at its head !" 



EDNA DEAN PBOCTOR. 405 

And the boon we gained through the noble lender 
Was the Bennington Da}' and Burgoyne's Surrender. 

Conflict over and weary quest, 

Hid in their hallowed graves they rest ; 

Nor the voice of love, nor the cannon's roar 

"Wins them to field or fireside more ! 

Did the glor}' go from the hills with them? 

Na}' ! for the sons are true to the sires ! 

And the gems they have set in our diadem 

Burn with as rare and brilliant fires ; 

And the woodland streams and the mountain airs 

Sing of the fathers' fame with theirs ! 

One, in the shadow of lone Kearsarge 

Nurtured for power, like the fabled charge 

Of the gods, by Pelion's w^oody marge ; — 

So lofty his eloquence, statel}' his mien, 

That, could he have walked the Olympian plain, 

The worshipping, wondering crowds had seen 

Jove descend o'er the feast to reign ! 

And one with a brow as Balder's lair, 

And his life the grandeur of love and peace ; — 

Easing the burdens the race nnist bear, 

Toiling for good he might not share, 

Till his white soul found its glad release ! 

And one — a tall Corinthian column. 

Of the Temple of Justice prop and pride — 

The judge unstained, the patriot tried, 

Gone to the bar supernal, solemn. 

Nor lelt his peer by Themis' side ! 

Ah I when the Old AVorld counts her kings, 

And from splendor of castle and palace brings 

The dainty lords her monarchies mould, 

AVe'll turn to the hills and say, "Behold 

Webster and Greeley and Chase for three 

Princes of our Democracy !" 

Land of the cliff, the stream, the pine, 

lilessiiig and honor and peace be thine ! 

Still may thy giant mountains rise, 

Lifting their snows to the blue c.f June, 

And the s. uth wind breathe' its tenderest sighs 

Over thy fields in the harvest nioon ! 

And the river of rivers, ^Merrimack, 

"Whose current never shall faint or lack 

AVliile the lakes and the crystal springs remain, — 

"Welcome the myriad brooks and rills 



406 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 



Winding through meadows, leaping from hills 

To brim its banks for the waiting wheels 

That thrill and fly to its dash and roar 

Till the rocks are passed, and the sea- fog steals 

Over its tide by Newbury's shore ! — 

For the river of rivers is Merrimack, 

Whether it foams with the mountain rain, 

Or toils in the mill race, deep and black, 

Or, conqueror, rolls to the ocean plain ! 

And still raa}^ the hill, the vale, the glen, 

Give thee the might of heroic men, 

And the grace of women pure and fair 

As the May-flower's bloom when the woods are bare ; 

And truth and freedom aye find in thee 

Their surest warrant of victory ; 

Land of fame and of high endeavor, 

Strength and glory be thine forever ! 



THE DEAD.* 

As if in lone Franconia one had said. 
"Alas! the glorious monarch of the hills. 
Mount Washington, is fallen to the vale ! 
The direful echo all the silence fills ; 
The winds sweep down the gorge with bitter wail ; 
The lesser heights rise trembling and dismayed, 
And the fond sun goes, clouded, to the west ;" — 
So to the street, the fireside, came the cry, 
"Our king of men, our boldest, gentlest heart, 
He whose pure front was nearest to the sky. 
Whose feet stood firmest on eternal right ; 
With his swift sympathies and giant might 
That scaled him for the mart^'r's, warrior's part, 
And led, through loss, to nobler victory — 
Lies low, to-da}', in death's unchallenged rest !" 

How we entombed him ! not imperial Rome 
Gave her dead Cffisars sepulture so grand. 
Though gems and purple on the pyre were flung ! 
His tender requiem hushed the clamorous land ; 
And thus, by power lamented, poet sung, 
Through stricken, reverent crowds we bore him home 
When winter skies were fair and winds were still ! 
And for his fame — while oceans guard our shores 

Horace Greeley died Nov. 29, 1872. 



EDNA DEAN FROCTOIt. 40 7 



And mountains midway lift their peaks of snow 
To tlie clear azure where the eagle soars ; 
While peace is sweet, and the world 3'earns again 
To hear the angel strain, "Good will to men ;" 
While toil brings honor, virtue vice deplores, 
And liberty' is preciou ; — it shall grow. 
And the great future with his spirit fill ! 



CONTOOCOOK RIVER. 

Of all the streams that seek the sea 

By mountain pass, or sunny lea, 

Now where is one that dares to vie 

With clear Contoocook, swift apd shy? 

Monadnock's child, of snow-drifts born, 

The snows of many a winter morn. 

And many a midnight daik and still, 

Heaped higher, whiter, day 1)3' da}^ 

To melt, at last, with suns of May, 

And steal, in tin}- fall and rill, 

Down the long slopes of granite gra^' ; 

Or filter slow through seam and cleft 

When frost and storm the rock have reft, 

To bubble cool in sheltered springs 

Where the lone red-bird dips his wings. 

And the tired fox that gains the brink 

Stoops, safe from hound and horn, to drink. 

And rills and springs, grown broad and deep, 

Unite through gorge and glen to sweep 

In roaring brooks tliat turn and take 

The over-floods of pool a.ul lake, 

Till, to the field -i, tlie hills deliver 

Contoocook's bright and brimming river ! 

O have you seen, from Ilillshorough town 
How fast its tide goes hurrying down, 
With rapids now, and now a leap 
Past giant boulders, black and steep. 
Plunged in mid-water, fain to keep 
Its current from the meadows green? 
But, flecked with foam, it si)eeds along ; 
And not the birch-tree's silvery sheen. 
Nor the soft lull of whispering pines. 
Nor hermit thrushes, fluting low. 
Nor ferns, nor cardi.ial-flowers that glow 



408 POETS OF NEW HAMP8HIBE. 

Where clematis, the faiiy, twines, 
Can sta)'^ its course, or still its song ; 
Ceaseless it flows till round its bed 
The vales of Henniker are spread, 
Their l)anks all set with golden grain, 
Or stately trees whose vistas gleam — 
A double forest — in the stream ; 
And, winding 'neath the pine-crowned hill 
That overhangs the village plain, 
By sunny reaches, broad and still, 
It nears the bridge that spans its tide — 
The bridge whose arches low and wide 
It ripples through — and should 3'Du lean 
A moment there, np lovelier scene 
On England's Wye, or Scotland's Ta^^ 
Would charm youT gaze, a summer's da}'. 
And on it glides, by grove and glen, 
Dark woodlands, and the homes of men. 
With now a ferry, now a mill ; 
Till, deep and calm, its waters fill 
The channels round that gem of isles 
Sacred to captives' woes and wiles, 
And, eager half, half edd3'ing back. 
Blend with the lordly Merrimack ; 
And Merrimack whose tide is strong 
Rolls gently, with its waves along, 
Monadnock's stream that, co}^ and fair, 
Has come, its larger life to share, 
And, to the sea, doth safe deliver 
Contoocook's bright and brimming river ! 



KEARSARGE. 

Kcarsarge, the mountain which gave its name to the ship tliat sunk the Alaljaina, 
is a nol)le granite peak in Merrimack County, rising alone, throe thousand feet above 
tlie sea. 

O lift th}' head, thou mountain, lone, 

And mate thee with the sun ! 
Th}' rosy clouds are valeward blown, 
Thy stars that near at midnight shone 

Gone heavenward, one by one. 
And half of earth, and half cf air, 
Thou risest vast and gray and bare 

And crowned with glor^'. Far south-Avest 
Monadnock sinks to see. 



EDNA DEAN PEOCTOE. 409 

P'or all its trees and towering crest 
And clear Contoocook from its breast 

Poured down f(;r wood and lea, 
How statelier still, tiirougli frost and dew, 
Tb}- granite cleaves the distant blue. 

And high to north, from fainter sk}-, 

Franconia's clirts look down ; 
Home to their crags the eagles fly, 
Deep in their caves the echoes die, 

The sparkling waters frown. 
And the Great Face that guards the glen 
Pales with the pride of mortal men. 

Na}', from their silent, crj'stal seat 

The AVhite Hills scan the plain ; 
Nor Saco's leaping, lightsome feet, 
Nor Ammonoosuc wild to greet 

The meadows and the main. 
Nor snows nor thunders can atone 
For splendor thou hast made thine own. 

For thou hast joined the immortal band 

Of hills and streams and plains, 
Shi'ined in the songs of native land, — 
Linked with the deeds of valor grand 

Told when the bright day wanes, — 
Part of the nation's life art«thou, 

O mountain of the granite brow ! 

» 
Not Pelion when tlie Argo rose, 

Grace of its goodliest trees ; 
Nor Norway hills when wjodman's blows 
Their j)ines sent crashing through the snows 

That kings might rove the seas ; 
Nor heights that gave the Armada's line. 
Thrilled with a joy as pure as thine. 

Bold was the ship thy name that bore ; 

Strengtli of the hills was hers ; 
Heart of the oaiis thy pastures store. 
The pines that hear Ihe north wind roar, 

The dark and taj^ering firs ; 
Nor Argonaut nor Viking knew 
Sublimer daring than her crew. 

And long as Freedom fires the soul 
Or mountains pierce the air, 



410 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 



Hor fame shall shine on honor's scroll ; 
Thy brow shall be the pilgrim's goal 

Uplifted broad and fair ; 
And from thy skies, inspiring gales 
O'er future seas shall sweep our sails. 

Still summer, keep thy pastures green, 
And clothe thy ooks and pines ; 

Brooks laugh thy rifted rocks between ; 

Snows fall serenely o'er the scene 
And veil thy lofty lines ; 

While crowned and peerless thou dost stand, 

The monarch of our mountain-land. 



AT HOME. 

An incident in the return of the New Hampshire troops. (1864.) 

"Now Charlc}', on the knapsacks 3-ou'll find an easy bed ; 
Our blankets we have folded and smooth above them spread ; 
The train will soon be starting, — here, drink this cup of wine, 
The captain just now sent it, — and, ere the morning shine. 
Away by blue Monadnock, and wliere the hill-brooks foam. 
You will be done with travel and rest in peace at home." 

"O boys, you're very good to me ; I feel so tired and weak. 
That though I love to listen, I scarce can bear to speak ; 
But I'm surely growing better, and if, at early dawn, 
I see our blue Monadnock ni}' pain will all be gone ; 
And when I hear my mother's voice, and sit within the door 
That opens by the brook-side, I shall be strong once more. 

"How much I have to tell her ! m}' letters were not long ; 
I could not write while on the march, nor in the camp-fire's throng ; 
But, when I sit beside lier, how sweet 'twill be to say, 
'Now, mother, list the story of what befell that da}' ;' — 
O, she shall hear of every fight, and count each weary mile 
I've trod, since, faint through silent tears, I saw her parting smile ! 

"Good night, boys ! I shall sleep now. What jo}- it is to feel 
We're drawing neai'er, nearer home with each revolving wheel ! 
Good night ! at dawn you'll wake me when round the bend we go, 
For there, beside the station, ni}' mother'U wait, I know ; 
And if she does not see me the first to leave the train, 
She'll think upon some nameless field her bo}- at last was slain." 

Slow turned away his comrades to snatch an hour's repose, 
Or talk of siege and battle while clear the moon uprose ; 



EDNA DEAN rROCTOIi. 411 



But when the swift train halted, back to his side they crept. 
Ami saw that on his narrow couch all peaceruUy he slept: 
So night wore on to morning, and day began to dye 
With floating rose and amber, the mellow eastern sky. 

A league, and then the station, "IIo ! Charley !" blithe they call, 
•'Here looms the mountain ; yonder the church-spire rises tall ;" — 
No sound : the}' bend above him ; his brow is cold and white ; 
He does not heed their voices ; he stirs not for tlie light ; — 
Away b}' blue Monadnoclc, and where the hill-brooks foam, 
The boy was done with travel ; the soldier had gone home ! 



O LOVED AND LOST! 

I sit beside the sea this autumn day. 

When sky and tide are ravishingly blue, 
And melt into each other. Down llie bay 
The stately ships drift b}' so still and slow. 
That, on the horizon's verge, I scarce may know 
Wliich be the sails along the wave that glow. 

And which the clouds that float the azure through. 

From beds of golden-rod and asters steal 

The south winds, soft as any breath of JNLay ; 
High in the sunny air the wliite gulls wheel, 
As noiseless as the cloud they poise below ; 
And, in the hush, the light waves come and go 
As if a spell entranced them, and their flow 
Echoed the beat of oceans far away. 

O loved and lost ! can you not stoop to me 

This perfect morn, Avhen heaven and earth are one? 
The south winds breathe of you ; I only sec 
(Alas, the vision sweet can naught avail !) 
Your image in the cloud, the wave, the sail ; 
And heed nor cahn, nor storm, nor bliss, nur bale, 
Remembering you have gone beyond the sun. 

One look into your eyes ; one clasp of hands ; 

One murmured, ''i-,o, 1 love you as before ;" 
And I would give you to your viewless lands 
And wait m}- time witli never tear or sigii ; — - 
But not a whisper conies from earth or sky, 
And the sole answer to my yearning cry 

Is the faint wash of waves along the shore. 

Lord ! dost thou see bow dread a thing is death 
When silence such as this is all it leaves? — 



412 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

To watch in agony the parting breath 
Till the fond eyes are closed, the dear voice still ; 
And know that not the wildest prayer can thrill 
Thee to awake them, but our grief must fill 
Alike the ros}' morns, the rain}- eves. 

Ah ! thou dost see ; and not a pang is vain ! — 

Some joy of ever}' anguish must be born ; 
Else this one planet's weight of loss and pain 
Would sta}' the stars in sj'mpathetic woe, 
And make the suns move pale, and cold, and slow, 
Till all was black and void, th}' throne below. 
And night shut down without a gleam of morn. 

But mark ! the sun goes radiant to his goal 
While winds make music on the laughing sea ; 

And, with his set, the starry host will roll 

Celestial si)lendors over mead and main ; 

Lord ! can thy worlds be glad, and death enchain? 

Nay 1 'tis but crowning for immortal reign 
In the pure realm where all abide with thee. 

What star has seen the sun at cloudless noon? 

What chrysalis knows aught of wings that soar?- 
O blessed souls ! how can I hope the boon 
Of look or word fi'om you, the glorified. 
Until for me the shining gates swing wide? — 
Welcome the da}- when the great deeps divide, 

And we are one in life for evermore ! 



iBtitoart) Eugugtus Jcnifcg. 

E. A. Jenks was born in Newport, Oct. 30, 1830. He received an academic educa- 
tion at Thetford academy, Thetford, Vt. In 18.V2 lie formed a copartnership Avith 
.Joseph C. Abbott, and purchased the Manchester .//;/(?/(:«?*. In 1856 he sold hia 
interest in the American, and went to Lowell, Mass.. where he resided two years. 
In 18.58 he became a resident of New York cit>', and was "proof-reader" in some 
of the largest publishing houses there. In 1862 he went to Cincinnati, Ohio, and 
became connected with the firm of Alexander Swift an<l Company, Iron manu- 
facturers, and contractors for tlie building of the monitors Catawba, Oueota, 
Klamath, and Yuma, for the government, where he remained until their com- 
pletion and delivery to the Navy Department. At the conclusion of the war he 
went to Vicksburg, Miss., as an agent for the purchase of cotton for sliipment to 
Northern markets. The prosecution of his business took him to nearly all parts 
of the state, by rail, steamboat, and horseback, as well as to many of "the neigh- 
boring states. In 1871 he was called to the head of the Republican Press As- 
sociation, of Concord, publishers of the Daily Monitoi- and the Independent 
Statesman, as its treasurer and )nisiaess manager. Since holding this position he 
has lliree times been elected state printer. In 1877, a vacancy occurring in the 
office of State Reporter (reporter of the decisions of the Supreme Court) , he was 
appointed to that office. He has made many contributions to current literature. 
Poems of his are found in Bryant's new "Lilirary of foetry and Song," Dr. 
Kendrick's ''Our Poetical Favorites," Harpel's '-Poets and Poetry of Printerdom," 
and Sargent's "Cyclopaedia of English and American Poetry." "Mr. Jenks resides 
in Newpoi'C. 



EDWARD AUGUSTUS JENKS. 413 

THE FARMHOUSE. 

The laughing sunshine peers above the hill, 

And down the slumbering vale ; 
Then hastens on with nimble feet, until, 
A rood or two beyond the silvery rill 
Now strolling idly through the crippled mill. 

He gains the cottage pale. 

The hospitable gate stands open wide. 

And with impatient lips 
The morning-glory beckons to her side 
The wayward youth, whose quest she ne'er denied ; 
Her tangled tresses quick he thrusts aside, 

And dew}- nectar sips. 

He lingers lovingl}- among the flowers 

That fringe the open door ; 
Then steals within, and wakes, with magic powers, 
The forms at rest in Dreamland's rustic bowers, 
And plays through morning's golden-tinted hours 

Upon the oaken floor. 

The birds troll welcome to the summer days 

From airy turrets high ; 
The bees are humming over ancient lays 
That erst were heard in Eden's shaded ways, 
On that bright morn when universal praise 

Rolled through the arching sky. 

Brave chanticleers, with summons loud and shrill. 

The languid echoes wake, 
AVhich just before were sleeping, calm and still, 
Behind the old and hoarj'-headed mill — 
AVhich nevermore will heed its master's will — . 

Be^'ond the dreaming lake. 

The butterflies have stretched their painted wings 

Upon the In-eath of dawn. 
And flit from flower to flower like human things : 
The slaughtered hay its dying perfume flings 
Abroad upon the white-winged gale, which brings 

And strews it o'er the lawn. 

Beneath the moss-grown roof a group prepare 

To siege the smoking board, 
Which fills with grateful incense all the air ; 
But first the reverend sire, with frosty hair. 
Craves "daily bread" for those assembled there. 

From Him for ave adored. 



414 POETS OF NEW HAMPSniBE. 

Qnidc follow then the clangings of the steel — 

AboAC no weltering foe ; 
Ko timid suppliants lor mercy kneel — 
Ko vizored Ibenien with dim vision reel ; 
But h;)pp3' voices grace the morning meal 

With love's sweet overflow. 

And then the cheerful group contrive to share 

The labors of the day ; 
While I, with angling gear and eager air, 
Retreat, like lion to his forest lair. 
To sliady woods where winding streams repair, 

And while the hours away. 



THE OLD MAN'S YESTERDAY. 

"Was't 3'esterday ? Yes, 'twas j'esterda}'' ! 

It must have been 3-esterday morn : — 
I stood on the bank of the River Ray, 

Where the squadrons of martial corn 
Their silken banners had just unfurled 

To the breeze, by the singing stream, 
When a vision of beaut}-, all golden-curled, 

Grew into my waking dream. 

"I know it was yesterday, — for now 

The rustle I seem to hear, 
As the tall corn parted right and left. 

And a voice rang soft and clear, — 
'Wait, Willie, wait ! 1 am almost there ! 

I said I would grant your wish, — 
So I've made a line of my golden hair, 

And am coming to help you fish !' 

"Yes I (wlw do I doubt?) it tfas yesterday — 

For I see the soft tassels there 
Sunning themselves in a worshipful wa}' 

In the light of her ^-ellow hair. 
While her voice rings merrih' over the corn, — 

'Oh, AVillie ! come help me through, 
For I am "the maiden all forlorn," 

And my feet are wet with dew. 

*' 'And j'ou know I'm coming to help 3'ou fish- 
But 3'ou'll think me a sill}- girl. 

For I haven't a bit of bait — but wait ! 
I'll bait with a tiny curl ! 



ED WABD A UG USTU8 JENKS, 4 1 5 



And, Willie, say — do you think they'll bite? 

And then, what shall I do? 
Must I pull and pull with all my might? 

But I'll wait, and look at you !' 

"Ah, me ! ah, me ! loas it j'estcrday ? 

It seems but a day ago ! 
Yet three-score A^ears of yesterdays 

Have whitened my head with snow 
Since we sat, in that sweetest of summer-times, - 

I and my beautiful May, — 
Coining our love into wedding chimes, 

On the bank of the River Kay." 



THE CHILDREN. 

The children ! the children ! — 
How dark the world, and gloomy. 
How wide, and cold, and roomy. 

To the mother's loving heart. 
Did not the breezes waft her 
The songs and merrj' laughter 

Of the blessed, blessed children ! 

The children ! O the children ! — 

How the sun would pale its glory, ^ 
And the beautiful in story 

Die out of all the lands, 

Could they not hear us calling, 
"When the twilight dews are falling, 

"Come home ! Come home, O children !" 

The children ! O the children !— 
Very sweet the sacred pnges. 
Floating down through all the ages, 

Telling of the Christ-child born 
"Where the mild-eyed oxen ponder, 
"With a sort of wistful wonder. 

O'er the Prince of all the children ! 

The children ! O the children !— 
See them blood-red roses strowing 
In the path where Christ is going 

Toward Jerusalem, the doomed ! 

Sec them wave their cool green banners! 
Hear them shout' their glad hosannas 

To the Saviour of the children ! 



416 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

TO A FAVORITE STREAM.* 

An October Poem. 

Silence sleeps in thy valley, 

O beautiful stream ! 
O wayward and m^'stical river ! 
Dreaming a pleasant dream, 
As the sunbeams on thy murmuring ripples quiver. 
And talking in his sleep — 
His sleep so sound and deep ! 

Dreaming of maidens roaming 

Thy banks along, 
And of jets of sparkling laughter 
Bursting from waves of song 
That must die away on the shores of the dim Hereafter — 
That peaceful, voiceless sea, 
Kin to Eternit}' ! 

Silence hath myriad voices, 

O gleaming tide I 
And from thine enchanting valle}', 
Radiant in its pride. 
They come to the clitf where the poet stands, — and shall he 
Inter[>ret them to thee. 
Under this old pine tree ? 

"Beautiful, beautiful river!" 

The old pine sighs ! 
And the wrinkled, gray old ledges, — 
Tears in their mossy eyes, — 
Toss back an echo from their jagged edges, 
To that lone sentinel. 
Guarding the valley well. 

Fondly the tall pine watches 

Th}' narrow bed. 
Fearing some morn to miss thee. 
Beautiful silver thread ! 
And ere the glooming he sends his shadow to kiss thee 
A soft and sweet good-night, 
Till morning's rosy light. 

Maples with crimson blushing, 

Far down below. 
And distant hillsides climbing. 

Changed to a golden glow, — . 

* Sugar River, in Sullivan Qpunty. 



ED WABD A UG USTUS JENKS. 4 1 7 

All lend a tongue to that m^-stcrious chiming, 
Deep as the sounding sea — 
Deep as their love for thee ! 

Blending in sweetest music, 

The tinlvling feet 
Ot rivulets down-rushing 
Dance to thy silver sheet, 
While the rapt sun through golden rifts is flushing 
Thy face witli heaven's own light : 
O dream too brief, too bright ! 

"Beautiful, beautiful river!" 

The old i)ine sighs : 
In the silence my heart replieth, — 

"Daughter of earth and skies. 
Farewell ! but at last, when my weary spirit flieth 
Be^'ond the chiming stars. 
Ma}- my eyes unclasp their bars 
To see thy placid waters calmly flowing 
Out from the Burning Throne, and down the valleys glowing !" 



HELENE. 

Under that snow-white sheet she lies — 

Helene m}^ beautiful ! Helene m}' true ! 

Softly the morning breaks over the skies, 

Softly regretful stars kiss her adieu ; — 

Lies she there seeming 

So blissfully dreaming, — 
Fragrant her ripe lips as breath of the morn, — 

No one shall lisp her 

Name even in whisper : 
She's roaming where fairj'-land fancies are born ! 

Clustering clouds of dark, passionate hair 

Frown back the curious beams of the sun : 
Hidden but meagerly, shapely and rare. 

Round, white, soft mysteries wait to be won ; — 

Seemingly bolder. 

One I'arian shoulder, 
Purity's self, dims the pillow below — 

"While, tin-own above her 

Head (who could but love her!) 
A round arm lies white as the shimmering snow ! 



418 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Parting as clouds part when summer winds blow, 

Heavenly wonders unveiling above, — 
So part the gauze-clouds, revealing below 
Opaline mountains in gardens of love ; — 

Soft undulations, 

Like music's vibrations 
Coursing light-footed the silver}' strings, 

Seem like the ocean 

In jubilant motion, 
Rocking its burden of beautiful things. 

Waking as wake the j'oung birds in their nests, 

Baby Nell opens her wondering eyes — 
Climbs where the lush mountains bear on their crests 
Strawberries ripe as the ruddiest skies ; — 

There, among treasures 

In bountiful measures, 
Roguish-eyed, cherry-lipped, piuk-footed Nell 

Drinks from a chalice 

The king in his palace 
Might barter his crown for, and barter it well. 



HYMN, 

Written for the Centennial Anniversary of the Congregational Church in New- 
port, Oct. 28, 1870. 

A thousand hearts are swelling 

With gratitude to-da}'. 
For here, to this His dwelling, 

Our Saviour leads the way : 
We turn the ancient pages. 

We scan the j^ellow leaves, 
Where Jesus, through the ages. 

Has written of His sheaves. 

We've heard the simple story 

Of that courageous band. 
The young, and heads all hoary, 

Who came to this fair land, — 
The pathless wild before them, 

The sleepless stars above, 
With heaven bending o'er them. 

And great hearts full of love. 



AMANDA JEMIMA SMART. 419 

The dews of June* were glist'ning 

Among the tree-tops there, 
And softest breezes list'ning 

To sadly cadenced pra3er, 
When on that Sabbath morning 

The fire began to glow, — 
This church's faint, sweet dawning, 

A hundred years ago. 

A hundred 3-ears ! — how glorious 

Their voices, and how strong, 
As down the years, victorious, 

The echoes roll along. 
O Christ ! like them undaunted 

When overwhelmed with woe, 
Come bless the church they planted 

A hundred years ago. 



Emantra ^t^ntima Smart. 

Amanda J. Dearborn was born in Thornton, in 1830. In 1S51 she married Lewi* 
B. Smart. They lived a few years in Kansas, \>\il preferring a home in Uicir nalive 
State, tliey returned and now' reside in Cauipton. 



"THE POOR IS FORGOTTEN OF HIS NEIGHBOR." 

Shall one, who does God's image bear, 
And shares each day his tender care, 

Forgotten live and die? 
Did Christ descend the rich to bless, 
And turn from sin to righteousness, 

And all the poor i^tiss by ? 

Where was the King of kings a guest, 
And where his only place of rest, 

When first to earth he came ? 
Was it in princel}' halls he slept. 
When shepherds left the flocks the}' kept, 

Led b}' the dazzling flame ? 

Where is He found in later days, 
AVhen prison walls resound with praise. 
And captive souls go free ? 

* Tn June, 1766, these men, ciprht in all, five havln? families, arrived In town Satur- 
day night; and the following day they snent in rcliicious worsliip, under th(^ tihadow 
of aplnciroe. Sincf these men mot iinder that Xvw, to thr pri'scut tiino, the Cong-re- 
Kationulists have never periniltcd a tiuuday to pass without meeting for religious 
worship. — Hiitory of Xewport. 



420 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

"Was it with those of noble birth, 

He spent his woful dajs on earth, 

Till hung upon the tree ? 

Ah, no ! with poverty' he dwelt, 
And want in every form he felt. 

E'en to the want of friends, — 
To-day, as yesterday the same, 
This friend the humble poor may claim- 
To all his love extends. 



A HOME IN THE GRANITE STATE. 

O, tell me no more of the wild prairies, fair. 

The tall waving grain and the giant-like corn, 

Of clustering vines and of flowerets rare. 

Where peaceful herds graze on the plains yet unshorn. 

The north wind is sweeping from midnight till noon, 
Its cold breath congealing each dew-covered leaf, 
The south alternating, a mimic monsoon. 
And changing the climate in time very brief. 

The mountains and hills of the old Granite State, 
"So changeful, and free from monotonous scenes. 
Have charms, in themselves, which aught cannot create 
'Mong dark muddy creeks, and more loathsome ravines. 

O, give me a home in my own native state. 

Where spirits of languor, and gloom will subside, 

And health-giving breezes with life will inflate. 

As clear sparkling rills from their cool fountains glide. 

Yes, give me the bobolink's musical trite, 
While singing in tree-top, or floating in air, 
For plain little Quail's everlasting hob tvhite. — 
His song is more welcome, his plumage more fair. 

The mountains majestic, with evergreen spread, 
Surpass, in their grandeur, the prairies in brown. 
The hills, decked in autumn with yellow and red. 
Enliven the city, the country and town. 

Ah. give me the home of my childhood again, 
The home where I sported, light-hearted and gay, 
A grave, where the dearest of kindred are laid — 
Their home, may I share, when from this, torn away. 



CONSTANCE FENIMOBE WOOLSON. 42I 

OTonstance jFenimore aaiocilson. 

Miss Woolson, a duxighter of Charles J. Woolson, is a native of Claremont. Her 
father was a printer. "When she was about twelve years of age, the family re- 
moved to Clevelaiiil, Ohio. She is descended on her fatlier's side from the Pea- 
hoilys of New Pviigland, and her motlier was a niece of Feniniore Cooper. Miss 
Woolsou is a writer of distinction. Her works of liction api)ear in Harper's Mag- 
azine, and other foremost periodicals. She has travelled much within the United 
Stales, iu a carriage, accompanied by her fatlier. 



FOUR-LEAVED CLOVER. 

She journeyed north, she journe3'ecl south, 

The whole bright land she wandered over, 
And climbed the mountains white with snow, 
And sought the plains where palm-trees grow. 
But — neA'er found the four-leaved clover. 



Then to the seas she spread her sail, 

Fled round the world a white-winged rover ; 

Her small foot pressed the Grecian grass. 

She saw Egyptian temples pass, 

But — never found the four-leaved clover. 

The costliest gems shone on her brow ; 

The ancient Belgian spinners wove her 
A robe of lace a queen might wear ; 
Her eyes found all most rich, most rare, 

But — never found the four-leaved clover. 

The throng did flock to see her pass, 

To hear her speak, and all men strove her 

Smile to win ; she had the whole 

Of each one's life and heart and soul, 
But — never found the four-leaved clover. 

A sudden whirlwind came at last, 

A little tempest rose, and drove her 
Homeward, bereft, alone, and poor, 
The fair friends fled, the journeyings o'er 
That never found the four-leaved clover ! 

"Alas I" she sighed, "all hope is gone ; 

I've searched the wide world through ; moreover 
M}' eyes are worn with toil ; they see 
But this small strip of grass" — There free 

And strong it grew — the four-leaved clover ! 



422 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Haura ^. NorrigJ. 

Miss Norris, a daugrhter of William Norris, is a native of Nottingham, bom In 
1S31. In 1874 she removed to Hampton, where she still resides with her aged par- 
ents. She commenced teaching at an early age, and has followed that vocation 
much of the time during the past thirty years. 



STANZAS. 

How sweet, when sorrows gather fast, 
When hopes of happiness grow dim, 

When memory o'er the changeful past 
Breathes forth a mournful requiem, 

To feel, as wearily we plod. 

The pure in heart shall see their God. 

And wouldst thou aid thy brother man 
As life's stern cares before him rise? 

In kindness then, his errors scan. 

And cheer when hope within him dies ; 

When duty calls, oh, falter not, 

And thine shall be a blessed lot. 

There breathes a song of purity. 
In loftiest tree and tiniest flower ; 

Rock, mount and wave alike may bo 
An emblem, of that wondrous Power 

Which guides the destinies of all, 

And heeds the sparrows when they fall. 

If there's a feeling of the heart. 

Which we should guard with zealous care. 
While love and friends their joys impart — 

With sacredness to cherish there, 
'Gainst eveiy breath or influence rude, 
That feeling sure is gratitude. 

Then may our sweet orisons rise 

With gratitude, nor idly pine, 
While time with tireless pinion flies. 

That more of bliss had not been thine — 
Tliis thought be of thy life a part. 
That God will claim the pure in heart. 



LINES, 

Addressed to a friend on the death of two lovely children. 

Gone out. upon that sea, whose rolling tide 
Will never bear their forms again to you ; 



LAUIiA A. KOHllTS. 423 



Their goal is readied, and, parted from j-our side. 
Their feet have pressed the strand we all must view. 

Softl}' to earth a guardian angel came, 
And in liis arms the gentle sufferers bore, 

To drink of waters from a living stream, 
And feast on love unknown to them before. 

Light were the shadows which their pathwaj's crossed, 
Bright was the sunshine which their childhood knew ; 

Few were their 3-ears, yet never will be lost 

The precious fragrance, which your hearts bedew. 

The earl}' dead are blest — the}' sweetl}' sleep 
Ere their young lives have felt the curse of sin ; 

And throngs of 30uthful voices music keep 

In rapturous strains, their star-crowned home within. 

And ye are blest, for faithful is the love. 

Which teaches children those sweet truths to know. 

Which came with heavenly beauty from the lips 
Of Him who blessed them, when He walked below. 

And full of love is that mysterious Power 

Which gave, which took — then pass beneath the rod : 
While faith and hope shall light this trying hour, 

That you ma}- recognize the hand of God. 



IN MEMORIAM. 

A Hebrew legonfl says thnt, "Before Adam and Eve were expelled from Para- 
dise, God camedown from lieu veil in the cool of the evenlDg and, walking In Eden, 
gathered the flowtrs he had created." 

Readeth thus the Hebrew legend : 

God within his garden strayed, 
Plucking from his chosen flowers 

Such as purest form displayed ; 
So from out our hapi)y household 

Quickly passed from mortal view 
One, whose life was crowned with gladness — 

Heart so tender, strong and true. 

'Tis the voice of God that speaketh ; 

Listen we with stifled moan, 
While the burden laid upon us 

Seems too grievous to be borne ; 
And our human hearts are lircaking 

'Neath this weight of loneliness — 
Gone the gladness from life's duties 

He was wont to share and bless. 



424 POETS OF NEW HAMP8HIBE. 

Unto purposes ennobling 

Was his heart's best homage given — 
In the pride of ripening manhood 

Gone to a reward in lieaven. 
One more hnlc will draw us thither 

With the foot-fall of the years, 
For beyond the touch of sorrow 

Pledge of perfect love appears. 

While the radiance Memory giveth 

Still will cheer the gloomiest hour, 
And though grief may weigh the spirit 

She will still assert her power ; 
And a faith, in God abiding, 

Bids all murmuring thoughts be still ; 
And amid this desolation 

Bow we to his sovereign will. 

Round about us, pitj'ing Father, 

Let us feel thy fond embrace — 
Through the rifted clouds of sorrow 

Recognise thy smiling face. 
Though an earthly staflf is taken 

Cling we closer unto thee. 
Since the mysteries which surround us 

In thy presence solved shall be. 



Mrs. Ellsworth, -vrhose maiden name -was Janorin, was born in Exeter in 1830. 
She was educated in her native town. Early developing a taste for composition, 
she won a prize in her eighteenth year, offered by the publishers of a leading Bos- 
ton journal, by the production of a tale entitled, "Children's Vows ; or the Cornelian 
Ring." She soon after published various articles, tales, sketches, and poetry in 
the Philadelphia popular magazines, and became a regular contributor to Godey's 
Lady's Book. She was author of several volumes pul)lished by the American Tract 
Society. In 1868 she married the late Oliver Ellsworth, a publisher of Boston. Her 
death occurred in the summer of 1870. She was a beautiful woman, gifted in no 
ordinary degree. 



A LAMENT FOR GERTRUDE. 

When had come the pleasant spring-time with the gentlj' drop- 
ping showers. 

And the balmy winds were playing with the bursting buds and 
flowers ; 

When the robin and the swallow each had come to build her nest, 

And the nodding water-lilies hung upon the river's breast ; 

When the glorious summer dawning brought the warm and 
summer skies, 



MAEY E. B. MILLEE. 425 

And the fields were filled with flowers, and the air with butterflies ; 

When was heard the drowsy murmur of the roving honey-bees, 

And the low and lulling music, stealing from the quivering leaves ; 

When with stalwart steps the autumn slowly came along the plain, 

Bending low beneath his burden of the golden fruit and grain ; 

Gertrude then and I went roaming out wiihin the forest lone. 

Where the beds of moss were golden, where the sunlight glanc- 
ing shone. 

From the cool and grassy valley came the sound of tinkling rills, 

And we saw the crystal brooklets leaping down between the hills. 

And we watched the dusky shadows of the twilight floating down, 

Down upon the level meadows, and upon the distant town. 

Where the sun had sunk in splendor, through the gates of west- 
ern skies, 

Rose the star-beams, soft and tender, as the light in maidens' 
eyes. 

Timidly then as a lover, and with foot-fall soft and light. 

Folding close her mantle round her, silently stole forth the night. 

Spring and summer now are over, and the birds and bees are 
flown. 

And alone I sit in sorrow, thinking of the seasons gone. 

In the store-house sheaves are garnered, like fond hopes in 
hearts of men. 

But the harvest-jo}' will never for my spirit spring again. 

Quenched the star-light is in darkness, and a gloom lies overall. 

And the shadows deep are folding o'er m^" heart like fearful pall ; 

For the autumn rains are dropping down upon a lowl}' bed. 

Where we laid our silent Gertrude, where repose the early dead ; 

And I hear the wind's sad wailing, for across her grave they've 
been ; 

And the rains without are falling, and the bitter tears within. 



Miss Miller is a native of Portsmouth. All the poetTy she ever published was 
written duriiifr tiie yi-ars of her atteiulaiico at schot)!. After leaviiifi school she de- 
voted herself to inu'sic. in which she was prolicicnt, beiiifj an excellent teacher In 
instrumental music. She was organist at the I'nitarian church for several years, 
composing much music for the choir under her direction. For tlie past few year* 
she has given her attention to painting, and is l)etter known as an artist than an 
niusiciau or poet. 8he resides in Boston, and has a studio at 14J Tremont Street. 

ON LIFE'S THRESHOLD. 

The way looks very long and dark and drear, • 

That leads through this strange life to life immortal : 

The great world's din is filling me with fear, 
As I stand trembling at its awful portal. 



426 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

Oh ! I have walked till now in quiet places, 

With Nature, in her woods aocl fields and dells : 

The flowers look at mc with familiar faces ; 
I know the story that the wild bird tells. 

I've watched the autumn sun's transfiguring splendor 
Flood heaven and earth and sea at da3-'s decline ; 

I've watched the harvest-moons rise calm and tender, 
And fair June mornings wake with smiles divine. 

With low, sweet melody of running water, 
With wild leaf-music, song of bird and bee. 

Has Nature welcomed me, where'er I sought her ; 
And never discord mars her harmony. 

Oh ! none of earth's sad sights and sounds have ever 
Disturbed the quiet of these blessed years ; 

And must I bid these jo^'s farewell for ever, 
To walk henceforward in a vale of tears ? 

The world looks ver}' cold and dark and dreary, 
As I stand trembling at its open gate : 

I hear within the sighing of the weary, — 
If I m%ist enter, let me longer wait ! 

I hear, from out its dark and frowning portal, 
No sounds but those of sin and woe and death ; 

No yearning prayers for life and light immortal, 
But only cries for bread that perisheth. 

And through the open gate of that sad city 
Are strange, dark faces gazing out on me : 

Oh, how my heart swells, with a shuddering pity, 
For these, whose life is one long misery ! 

For women, with such still and hopeless faces ; 

For men, whose passions live, whose souls are dead ; 
For childhood, without childhood's sunny graces ; 

And age, without the halo round its head. 

Are these the sights for which I leave the mountains, 
Thy sunlit meadows, and the blossoms fair? 

Must I exchange the song of birds and fountains. 
For this dread wailing of the world's despair? 

O selfish soul ! the peace which God hath given. 
Which keeps thee safe amid temptation's fires ; 

The living bread that cometh down from heaven. 
And satisfies thine infinite desires, — 



QEOBGE EUGENE BELKNAP. 427 

With these go bravely fortli to meet thy duty : 

"Within those gloom}' gates that duty lies. 
Fear not the dimness, — it will change to beauty 

When Christ of Nazareth shall anoint thine eyes. 

Beneath the weight of this unending sorrow, 
Behold Ilim bending, — Him who died for thee ! 

Hear how these moans of human anguish borrow 
The pathos of his pleading agon}- ! 

No time remains for dreams, nor for complaining ; 

Childhood is past, — put childish things away : 
Christ calls thee by his Spirit's sweet constraining : 

Arise and work for him, while it is day. 

world ! th\- darkness can affright no longer ! 

Witliin its depths the living God doth dwell : 
Evil is mighty ; but his love is stronger, — 

Stronger tlian pain and sin and death and hell! 



(&tQX%z iSugcnc 13clitnap. 

Captain George E. Belknap, U. S. N., is a native of Newport where lie was born 
January 22, 1832. He was appointed a Midshipman in the U. S. Naval Service and 
entered the Naval Academy at Annapolis, Md., in 1847; was graduated IVom that 
institution in 1854. auil ordered to duty on Coast Survey as passed INlidshipman ; 
commissioned a Lieutenant in 1855; Lieut. Commander in 18G2; promoted to Com- 
mander for efficient and conspicuous services during the Civil War; assigned to 
special duty, in the "Tuscarora" by the Secretary of the Navy, in 1873, to make deep 
sea soundings across the North Pacilic between California and Japan, and wa« 
commissioned Po.st Captain in January, 1875. He has been elected a Fellow of the 
American Geographical Society ; and was awarded a silver medal by the Geograph- 
ical Sodctj' of France as a recognition of merit for hydrographical work on the 
"Tuscarora." He is author of papers on deep sea soundings in the Army and 
Navy Magazine, and is at present in conmiand of U. S. Ship "Alaska" on the 
South Pacific Station. Captain Belknap has been an officer in tlv V. s. Navy for 
nearl>' thirty -live years, has had important commands, and has sailed ou all seas. 



CHRISTENING HYMN. 

Saviour, round this font we gather, 

Tliis dear child to olfer thee ; 
Lift him to thy gracious Father, 

Crown him witli the life to be ! 
Hark, the angels list, awaiting 

One more little soul to greet ; 
Lo, tiiey lill tlie air with singing; — 

Bid him come with welcome sweet. 

"Bring to me the little children," 
Blessed Saviour, thou luist said ; 

Take, O Lord, this fresh young pilgrim, 
Gent!}- pillow his sweet head ; 



428 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

By this sign his brow imprinting, 
Pledg'd is his young soul to thee ; 

Help, blest Son ! these vows insuring, 
Now and in eternity ! 



HOMEWARD BOUND. 

Coming, darling, coming, pass it from lip to lip, 
The glorious news swift telling of this, the homeward ship ! 
Coming, darling, coming, the homeward pennant flies, 
From truck to water streaming, as if to flaunt the skies ! 

Coming, darling, coming, what music thrills the baj"? 
O 'tis the boatswain piping "all hands up anchor weigh !" 
Coming, darling, coming, let land and sea resound, 
O shout the happ}' tidings for we are homeward bound ! 

Coming, darling, coming, did bird e'er sweeter sing 
Than pipes so cheer}- whistling "all hands up anchor bring !" 
Coming, darling, coming, O quick, "bring-to the chain," 
And ready bars swift shipping, to loose us on the main ! 

Coming, darling, coming, O list the merry din 
Of capstan steady heaving, to sound of violin ! 
Coming, darling, coming, O heave ye jolly boys. 
The anchor quickly tripping to speed the coming joys ! 

Coming, darling, coming, O glad the cry, "belay!" 
As up the hawse-pipe dripping, the anchor hangs aweigh ! 
Coming, darling, coming, O snug the anchor stow, 
And see ! already curling, the waters 'neath our prow ! 

Coming, darling, coming, "aloft!" "the sails unfurl!" 
And quick their wings expanding, to haste me to my pearl ! 
Coming, darling, coming, blow fair 3-e breezes blow, 
As o'er the billows bounding, so joyously we go ! 

Coming, darling, coming, but hist! what stirring strain 
Comes o'er the waters stealing, so quickens heart and brain ? 
Coming, darling, coming, 'tis strain of Auld Lang Syne 
The ships behind are playing, and O, with streaming eyne ! 

Coming, darling, coming, O sweet, blissful day. 
So swifth' seaward sailing down Yokohama bay ! 
Coming, darling, coming, O loud the beams do creak. 
As far behind we're leaving fair Fusigama's i^eak ! 



GEOBGE EUGENE BELKNAP. 429 

Coming, darling, coming, past cape and headland lone, 

The eager sails full blowing t'Oosima's smoking cone. 

Coming, darling, coming, the dolphin plays around. 

And porpoise, leaping, blowing, in schools are windward bound. 

Coming, darling, coming, O heart, so all alight, 

Slack not your quicken'd pulsing, nor sta}- its rare delight ! 

Coming, dai'ling, coming, wing your breezj* way 

Ye petrels round us twit'ring, but bring no storm today ! 

Coming, darling, coming, O wake ye fav'ring gales, 
And waft us swiftly speeding with grandly swelling sails ! 
Coming, darling, coming, O sweet the ocean's foam. 
As sailing, flying, bounding, we onward press for home ! 

Coming, darling, coming, O melt ye chilling snows. 
And skies, 3'our clouds dispersing a bluer blue disclose ! 
Coming, darling, coming, ye lilies bow 3'our heads. 
And pansies new upspringing, fresh purple all your beds ! 

Coming, darling, coming, run fair ye tidal flows, 
And bees, in clover sipping, go hum it to the rose ! 
Coming, darling, coming, burst forth ye summer showers, 
And brooks with joyous babbling prelude the coming hours ! 

Coming, darling, coming, away ye winter glooms, 
And all the air perfuming burst forth ye apple blooms ! 
Coming, darling, coming, O laugh ye mountain rills, 
In quiet pools now dimpling, now leaping down the hills ! 

Coming, darling, coming, O throb ye ocean swells. 
In surges softly lulling as sound of distant bells ! 
Coming, darling, coming, lair mermaids chant the song, 
In tropic depths responding, corals and pearls among ! 

Coming, darling, coming, awake ye lord of daj', 

And larks already soaring, O blithely lead the way ! 

Coming, darling, coming, O wave ye ripe'ning grain. 

Your dewy heads bright glinting, like sunshine mixt with rain ! 

Coming, darling, coming, O ring ye happy bells. 
The uplands fill with clanging, tling chimes o'er all the dells ! 
Coming, darling, coming, bloom fresh ye fairest flowers, 
Yet hold your sweetest blossoms to deck her sunny bowers ! 

Coming, darling, coming, arise thou Queen of night, 

And stars, lend all your twinkling grand ocean's lace to light ! 

Coming, darling, coming, O glow ye fiery trails. 

And Borealis streaming, resplendent deck the sails ! 



430 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 



Coming, darling, coming, O joyous swell the song, 
As o'er the waters voicing its sweetest strains prolong ! 
Coming, darling, coming, O sweet the rush, the sound 
Of waters rippling, plashing, 'longside the homeward bound ! 

Coming, darling, coming, slow sinks the polar star, 

And rising, mounting, beck'ning shines Southern Cross afar ! 

Coming, darling, coming, O Pleiads crown the way, 

Your sweetest influence lending to haste the happy day ! 

Coming, darling, coming, whisper it o'er the leas ! 
Make answer pretty birdling, a-floating o'er the seas ! 
Coming, darling, coming, O joy of homeward ships, 
The dreams of sweet enfolding, and touch of happy lips ! 

Coming, darling, coming, glow ye mountain peaks ! 
Ye cables oceans spanning, flash it throughout the deeps ! 
Coming, darling, coming, tell it the wide world round, 
shout the happy tidings, for we are homeward bound ! 



Mrs. Hinsdale was born at Hanover, May 17, 1832. She is the daughter of Charles 
B. Haddock, who for tliirty-flve years was a Professor iu Dartmouth College, and 
who died iu IfeGl. His mother was Abigail Webster, the sister of Daniel and Eze- 
kiel Webster. Grace W. became in 18.50, the wile of Hon. Theodore Hinsdale, an 
eminent lawver, who resided in Brooklyn and practised his profession during forty 
years in New York City. He died Aug. 19, 1880. Of her seven children four are 
living. In 1&67 slie spent nearly six months abroad. Slie has been author of„two 
books, (for children,) "Coming of the King," and "Thinking Aloud," which were 
published by Kaudolph, and republished in Loudon by Strangton in 1867. Her 
work has been cliiefly for magazines aud papers. There are four of her poems in 
Philip Schaff'a "Chi-ist iu Song." 



"LOVEST THOU ME?" 

Sweet was the da}^ I crowned thee, Lord, 

Sweet were its hours divine : 
The day I crowned thee, in 1113- heart ; 

The day thou mad'st me thine. 

Oh, sweet the daj-, when th}- fair face 

Drew all 1113^ soul to thee, 
And, in a blest exchange of love, 

Thou gav'st thyself to me ! 

What holy passion stirred m}' heart, 
What tears m^' J03' outpoured, 

When thou didst come to ask the love 
Of one who thee adored ! 



GBACE WEBSTEB HINSDALE. 431 

And thou hast -won my soul at last ; 

("Who could resist such grace?) 
Again I crown thee in my heart ; 

None shall usurp thy place. 



THE UNBRUISED GRAIN. 

There's silence in the mill, 
The great wheel standeth still, 
And leaves the grain unbruised ! 

The miller, old and gra}-, 
Hath turned his face awaj- 
From human life and toil. 

His wear}- work is done, 
The stream of life hath run 
Into the boundless sea. 

No longer do I hear 

His pleasant words of cheer, 

As past the mill I w'alk ; 

The hand which trembling lay 
On heaA'ing breast to-day. 
Is cold and white and still. 

And shall the golden grain 
Lie waiting now in vain 
For other hands to work ? 

The miller gra}' and old, 
Who licth dead and cold. 
Hath earned his blessed rest. 

O youth, take thou his place 
And, with uplifted face. 
Work thou for human need ! 

Let not life's force in thee 

Unused and wasted be — 

Take thou the true man's place ! 



THE UNTRODDEN PATH. 

Outside the gate to Calvary 

The Saviour goes, 
Each weary stop his life-blood marks, 

As fast it flows ! 



432 rOETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

The scourging whip no pity won 
For Jesus Christ God's blessed Son, 
Yet bruised and torn He, patient, bears, 
For us, His woes ! 

As, when of old, the Patriarcli, 

Bound close the wood 
Upon the child, who wondering much, 

So meekly stood : 
Thus did the Lord the cursed tree, 
Bear midst his pain to Calvary, 
When walking, faint, his aching limbs 

Were bathed in blood ! 

No need to raise the cruel cross 
* Before His eye — 

That seeing it He might refuse 

To bleed and die ; 
Salvation's price in heaven he learned, 
Yet Love, divine, with pity yearned 
To rescue souls estranged from God, 
And bring them nigh ! 

The Roman soldier weaves a crown 

For Hiin to wear. 
Of pliant branch and sharpened thorn 

His flesh to tear; 
Ko laurel wreath, which triumph shows, 
Adorns His brow, as weak He goes, 
Bending so low Avith humble love 

That death to bear ! 

They drive the nail through tender nerves 

Of foot and hand, 
^ AVhile scoffing men, with impious taunts, 

Around Him stand ! 
No blasting word, of righteous wrath 
Flings curses on His murderer's path — 
But Jesus prays that God would bless 

That guilty band ! 

The cross is set — and torture, keen. 

Shows on His face, — 
Yet no distress or agony 

P^xhausts His grace ! 
"I thirst," He erics, and, quick to mock. 
They offer Him the hyssop stalk ; 
Though Lord of life He, patient, waits 

For death's slow pace ! 



GRACE WEBSTER HINSDALE. 433 

And soon it comes — the earth is dark 

'Neath blotted sun, 
Tlie might}^ work of saving man 

At length is done — 
Sweet peace is gained, and sin atoned, 
And man, once more, God's child is owned, 
The emptied graves declare that Christ 

Hath victory won ! 



LISTENING TO THE SEA. 

What art thou saying, restless sea? 

Why canst thou never, never rest? 
Whisper, across thy blue to me. 

The secrets of thy swelling breast ! 

Tireless and boundless are th}' waves — 
Thy fickle heart is treacherous too — 

And in tli}' deep and dreadful caves 
Lie treasures, hid from human view. 

Oh moaning sea, what dost thou sa}' ; 

Hast thou thy promise kept to me ? 
I trusted one, more dear than life. 

Upon thy billows — faithless sea ! 

How, like a vexed and troubled soul, 
Thy waves are moving to and fro, 

And, with a dirge thy billows roll. 
O'er all the dead, who sleep below. 

T am not gladdened by the flash 
Of sunlight, on thy dashing foam, 

Nor can I laugh amidst the winds, 

Which, wild o'er thy vast desert, roam. 

No friend art thou to human hearts, 

cruel, false, yet glittering sea ! 
How hast thou severed souls that loved ! 

1 sing no joyous song to thee. 

Yet, when thy giant-strength is roused, 
Yty winds which stir thy might}' tide, 

I own Jehovah's dreadful power, 
Which doth upon th}- billows ride. 

But, far beneath the raging storm. 
All peaceful sleep the patient dead. 

There kings and slaves, earth's weary ones. 
Await the summons from their bed. 



434 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Her little child the mother holds, 

With clinging arms, which death has chilled, 

But silence reigns in Neptune's halls. 

For hearts are hushed, and lips are stilled. 

No flattering song, with loving tone, 

Bursts from my lips, dark, treacherous sea,— 

My heart is trembling with its fear, 
Whene'er I dare to think of thee. 

Thou bear'st my life upon thy breast. 
Thou tak'st my all of jo}' from me — 

Oh, spare my heart, and show thy love. 
If thou canst love — deceitful sea. 



RAPHAEL'S MADONNA DI SAN SISTO. 

Written after viewing the magnificent picture in the royal gallery at Dresden. 

Thou stand' st between the earth and heaven. 

Sweet Mary, with thy bo^^ ; 
And on thy 3'oung and lovely face 

Linger surprise and joy. 

The angel's words are sounding yet 
' In thy attentive ear ; 

Thou hold'st thy child most tenderly. 
And yet with awe and fear. 

Almost a frightened look thou hast. 

As if within thy thought 
The glory of thy motherhood 

An anxious burden brought. 

Thou dar'st not clasp the holy child 

With freedom to th}^ breast, 
And yet because he is thine own 

Thou look'st supremely blest. 

God gave the bo}' into thine arms. 

And thou his mother art — 
And ,yet the words the angel spoke 

Are lingering in th}' heart. 

Thou canst not call him quite thine own. 

And when upon thy knee 
He sleeps as other infants sleep, 

Thou dost a glorv see, 



QBACE WEB8TEB HINSDALE. 4:'.:) 



Which fills thee with a kind of awe, 

And makes thee tremble so, 
That thou dost lay thy baby down. 

And, bending very low, 

Dost ask the Father why he sent 

A babe divine to thee, 
And, pouring out thy troubled heart. 

Dost seek his sympathy. 

Oh Mary, loved of God and man, 

Let all thy fears depart, 
For God will send his Spirit down. 

To guide th}' anxious heart — 

And thou shalt rear the blessed child 

Cheered by his smile divine. 
And in thy sweet and humble home 

.Shall God's veiled glor^- shine. 

But oh ! I di-ead for thee the hour 
When thou shalt stand alone 

Beneath the cross where God's dear Sou 
Shall for man's sin atone. 

A su'ord shall enter then thine heart 

And leave such bitter pain, 
That thou wilt kneel in agony, 

Inquiring once again, 

Why God should crush the£ with a grief 

No other heart could share, 
And why in utter loneliness 

Thou must the anguish bear. 

And Oh ! I see another day 

When thou shalt wondering stand, 

Amidst a throng who welcome thee. 
In heaven, the blessed land. 

And then the Lord who lived on earth 

Clothed in humility. 
Shall sit upon his Father's throne 

In radiant majesty. 

The angels then shall lead thy feet 

Across the crystal sea. 
And thou shalt reach the blessed One 

Who lived and died for thee ; 



436 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Thy grateful pi-aise shall swell the song 
Which rises toward the throne, 

For then the m3-steries of earth 
Shall all be fully known. 

Sweet Mary ! when the gates of life 
Death's hand unlocks for me, 

I shall discern thy lovel}'^ face. 
By its humilit}'. 



Otaroliue Ena^tasia Sp^I^ihS- 

Miss Spalding is a daughter of Dr. Phineas Spalding. She is a native of Lyndon. 
Vt. Dr. SpaUliiig removed witli his family to Haverhill in 1S40. Caroline's educa- 
tion was carefully attended to while young. She is a graduate of Mount Ilolyoke 
Seminary. She is very retiring in her disposition and has ever avoided notoriety. 
Her writings are mostly of a moral and religious character. She has one prize 

Eoem published by the New York Observer in book form. Many of her poems 
ave never been piiblished. Her prose writings have been published from time to 
time in various newspapers, such as the N. Y. Observer, Courier and Enr^uirer, the 
N. Y. Independent, Christian Union, Boston Congregationalist, Vermont Chronicle, 
New Hampshire Journal, etc. She has never engaged in teaching, except in music, 
on account of her health. She has been a most "devoted teacher in the Sabbath 
School for over thirty years, and has been organist at church for over fll'teen years. 



ARCHITECTURE. 

I too was a builder — long, long years ago, 
1 built me a palace— I made it of snow ! 
Its st\'le was unique, for it had but one door. 
And my household of dolls all sat on the floor. 

It had arches and tiii'rets, pillars and dome, 
M}" model I found in a picture of Rome ; 
But the columns of crystal, my structure upheld, 
No marl)le of Italy ever excelled. 

It was crested with diamonds a princess might own. 
They were made by the sunbeams on it that shone. 
While no mother-of-pearl, from the waters below. 
Was ever as pure as my palace of snow. 

Its lawns were like velvet, and terraces too, 
I planted the wood-moss around it that grew. 
While evergreen twigs from a sunshiny glade, 
Now gracefully bending, an avenue made. 

No gaudy exotics bloomed in my parterre, 
/But the red mountain-ash berries alwajs were there, 
And scarlet seed-cups, from rose-withered leaves. 
Leaned over the brooklet that ran from the eaves. 



CABOLINE ANASTASIA SPALDING. 4^^ 

But alas ! when the noontide fell with its heat ! 
I snatched mv poor dolls from their dripping retreat, 
While the_v nevi'r dreamed litdf the anguish 1 felt, 
When I found my beautiful palace would melt. 

Years passed, but not yet bringing shadows of care, 
Again 1 built castles — but these were of air ! 
And their tall minarets uprose to the sk^-. 
With hues like the rainbow when sunbeams are nigh. 

No marvel of beauty, painter e'er dreamed, 
No work of the sculi)tor half as fair seemed, 
No visions that poet or fable e'er feigned 
Exceeded the fancies my castles contained. 

There was music whose rapturous strains charmed the ear, 
Harmonious chords the earth-born cannot hear ; 
Ah ! no treasures of genius or art could compare 
With the wonderful things in m^' castles of air. 

But life brought its lessons, practical, real. 
Experience shattered the fairest ideal. 
And the air-castles vanished, long time ago, 
More quickl}', indeed, than the structure of snow. 

And then I built ships — from the stern to the prow, 
They were stanch, fresh and new — I sometimes see them now 
While from mast and from rigging flags floated afar. 
And gay-colored streamers embellished each spar. 

They had jewels and diamonds and pearls for their freight. 
They had Hope for their captain and Joy for their mate, 
And as over the waters the}- bounded along. 
Each dash of the waves brought back pteans of song. 

They are still on the sea — but under what sk}' 
The blue, starry folds of their pennons do flv, 
I know not — I ask not — nor where they have been, 
For the}' are the ships that will "never come in !" 

Then I said, "It is vain — each work of ni}- hand, 
My fabrics all crumble, they're built upon sand ; 
Mv silver is tarnished, my idols are clay ; 
My air-castles vanish, my ships float away ! 

But a city there is, with its "jasper wnll," 
As clear as the waters of crystal that fall, 
A city that far beyond time shall endure, 
For its "twelve foundations" are solid and sure ! 



438 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

They are garnished with topaz, and emeralds rare, 
AVhile the gates made of pearl are never closed tliere ; 
For angels keep guard, where no mortal has trod. 
O'er the streets of that cit}', whose Maker is God ! 

And the promise remains, our hopes to inspire, 
To those who a "heavenly country" desire, 
The Builder himself, in His word has declared 
He hath for the faithful a "city prepared." 

Then if we but strive his commandments to do, 
Those beautiful gates we may all enter through. 
As heirs of His kingdom — who sits on the throne, 
For the Lamb that was slain is the "chief-corner-stone. 



MARY LYON. 

Long years have passed since In thy dreamless sleeping 
They laid thee where the willow branches wave ; 

Snow-drops and daisies each in turn are keeping 
Their peaceful vigils o'er thy hallowed grave. 

Thou didst not wait to see the shadows gather. 
The calm, sweet hush that tells the da}' is done ; 

But in the heat and toil of noonday, rather. 

The heights were scaled, the long-fought victory- won. 

Thou art not dead ! throuofh other living voices 
Thy blessed words are flowing on to-day ; 

And man}' a stricken, bleeding heart rejoices, 
As rays of heavenly light illume her way. 

Beside the bank of India's flowing waters. 
Beneath the branches of the spreading palm, 

Thy teachings, through the lips of Holyoke daughters. 
Fall on the ear like drops of healing balm. 

The echoes of thy voice e'en now are stealing 

Through Turkish mosques and shining Chinese towers 

The tidings of a Saviour's love revealing 

To dark-ej-ed maidens in the Persian bowers. 

'Mid islands of the sea, perfumed with beauty, 
Or 'neath the scorching sun of Afric's sk}-, 

Thy warning notes and stirring calls to duty 
Lift from the dust the spirits doomed to die. 

And who shall say what high and holy striving 
For purer lives and nobler deeds of worth, 



CAROLINE ANASTA8IA SPALDING. 435» 

Kindled by thj' example, here is thriving 
To bless and elevate this sinful earth ? 

How vain and worthless seems all earthl}' glory ! 

How dim the gilding on the rolls of fame ; 
While with admiring eye we read the story 

Of th}' great life and thy immortal name. 

Oh, noble heart, to noble deeds aspiring! 

Alike unstained by worldliness or guile, 
In self-denying acts and zeal untiring, 

Now basking in the sunlight of the Father's smile. 

We look upon thy life like some vast mountain 

Towering in grandeur far above the plain ; 
AVhile from its summit flows a ceaseless fountain 

Refreshing the parched earth with cooling rain. 

(ienlle, refined, with woman's true devotion, 

No aspirations for a "manl}- sphere ;" 
Yet tilled with every loft}', grand emotion — 

"Neglect of duty" all that thou didst "fear." 

Sleep on in peace ! Thy life work still progressing ; 

Tiiy name through coming years shall hallowed be. 
Till praising God for this, his priceless blessing. 

Thy "stars" are gathered by the "jasper sea." 



THE QUAKER MEETING. 

A summer daj' of quiet peace, 

All save the billow's roar. 
Where ocean breezes swept the isle, 

And ocean waves the shore. 

Sweet Sabbath calm ! the cares of life 

Hushed in a blest repose. 
We joined the silent group whose faith 

No outward utterance shows. 

On plain, hard benches sisters sat. 

Brothers across the way ; 
No voice escaped from those broad-brims, 

None from the bonnets gray. 

We tried in vain to bring our souls 
Into a heavenly frame, 



440 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

Their heads were bowed in silent prayer ; 
Ours should have been, in shame. 

For worldly thoughts came stealing in ; 

We missed the gathered throng, 
The frescoed wall, the organ's peal, 

The priest, the prayer, the song ! 

And so unbidden visions came, 
Echoes would not be stilled, 

The "Quaker Poet" and his dreams 
The vacant places filled. 

O'er Mary Garvin, sunbeams played, 
And on Maud MuUer's brow ; 

A gray-haired matron's placid face 
Was Barbara Frietchie's now. 

Good Parson Avery took his seat 
B}' Andrew Rykman's side ; 

While next to Abraham Davenport 
The Barefoot Boy we spied. 

"The orchard birds sang sweet and clear,' 
"Pines" moaned on "Ramoth Hill," 

The "lilies" wafted from the "pond" 
Their "benediction still." 

At length the hour for parting came, 

Our visions fled in air ! 
The silent group grasped silent hands, 

And left the house of pra3er. 

And this the lesson that we learned 
On that sweet Sabbath day ; 

That loving souls can worship God 
Each in his silent way. 



THE OLD MAN OF THE MOUNTAIN. 

A scene of rarest beauty. 

Where wood and lake and sky 

Were dressed in regal splendor 
Entrancing to the eye. 

Our souls had been uplifted 

Above the things of earth. 
Its petty cares and triumphs 

Seemed of such trivial worth. 



CAROLINE ANASTASIA SPALDING. 441 

For amid nature's grandeur 

We spent the autumn day ; 
Through gorge and mountain passes 

We took our wondering wa}'. 

And now llie lengtliening shadows 

The even-tide foretold, 
The clouds had added crimson 

To draperies of gold ! 

We sat in restful silence 

Beside the tranquil lake, 
With only woodland voices 

The peaceful calm to break. 

The pines were whispering o'er us, 

The mosses fringed the ground, 
The ferns and fragrant birches 

Their odors shed around. 

But far above us, standing- 
Right out against the sky, 

A calm, stern face uplifted 
Its granite brow on high. 

No trace of mortal weakness, 

Majestic, fearful, grand ; 
A piece of nature's sculpture 

Carved by the Master's band. 

The whirlwind may encircle 

That rock}', firm retreat, 
The winter snows enshroud it, 

The storm in fury beat ; 

But still unmoved, ini3'ielding, 

Th' impassive ftice looks down ; 
No smile the sunbeam wakens, 

The tempest brings no frown. 

The thunder peals unheeded. 

The lightnings o'er it flash. 
As harmless as the ripples 

Upon the shore that dash ! 

Oh Thou all-glorious Father ! 

Whose hand these wonders piled, 
Lifting the mountain masses 

lu beauty strangely wild ; — 



442 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

Who, with unerring wisdom, 
Long ages since didst place 

Far up among the sunbeams 
This calm, unchanging face. 

Give us the strength to conquer 
The ills that crowd our way, 

The foes without, the snares within, 
The wiles that lead astray. 

To bear unmoved the tempest ; 

Fearless and undismayed 
To walk beneath the sunshine, 

Remembering it must fade* 

Farewell, thou mountain teacher ! 

This lesson let us learn. 
As in tlie labyrinth of life 

Our wandering steps return. 

He who, with sure foundation, 
A lofty height has won 

Need not to fear the whirlwind, 
Nor faint beneath the sun. 



WHITHER? 

'Whither goest thou, and whence comest t\\o\x1"— Judges xix : 17. 

I come from a land of beaut}^. 

Where skies are entrancingly fair, 
Where the flowers are dressed in their regal robes. 

And their perfume floats on the air. 
But the blossoms wither as night-dews fall. 
And the drooping petals become a pall. 

I come from a land of promise, 

Where the rainbow is spanning the cloud. 

Where the song of the skylark is cheering 
The heart that is earthward bowed. 

But the bright hues fade on the darkening sky, 

And the strains of the music in echoes die. 

I come from a land of changes. 

Where nothing but death is sure. 
Where the tempest follows the sunbeam, 

And the meteor-flashes allure ; 
Where the heart grows cold ere it turns into dust, 
Where the moth consumes and the treasures rust. 



CAROLINE ANASTASIA SPALDIXG. 448 



I come from a land of trial, 

Tenij^tation and bitter strife, 
Where the good that we would we do not, 

Where the conflict ends but with life. 
Where the path is beset with pitfalls and snares. 
Where the reaper seeks grain and only linds tares. 

I come from a land of parting, 

Where the loved of the earl}' da^-s 
With curtained e^e and with unclasped hand 

Pass helplessly from our gaze ; 
Where we dare not cling to the loving and fair. 
Lest the black-plumed wing should be hovering there. 

I go to a land of beaut}'. 

More fair than the poets have told, 
Where the waving palms and the jasper wall, 

And the streets of the purest gold. 
And the gates of pearl by the crystal sea. 
Are but symbols dim of the glories to be. 

I go to a land of promise. 

Where the rainbow around the throne 
Is the pledge that none of His words shall fail 

AVherewith he had gathered his own. 
No broken chords in the harmony there ! 
No heaven-born hopes exchanged for despair. 

I go to a land unclouded 

By any shadowing night. 
Where ''they need no candle or sunbeam," 

For our God is its changeless light. 
Where the dazzling beams on our vision that fall 
Are but wandering rays from the fountain of all. 

I go to a land celestial. 

Where God wipes away all the tears, 
Where the former things have departed, 

The sorrows, the pain and the fears ; 
Where "beauty for ashes," and Joy for our woe, 
When he "makes up his jewels," his hand will bestow 

Oh, glorious, beautiful land I 

Unwortliy and fettered by sin, 
How dare 1 hope for a vision 

Of all the glories within ? 
His promise is sure, his robe shelters me, 
"Wliere the Master is, there the servant shall be." 



444 POETS OF NEW HAMP8HIBE. 

HIS OWN. 

"They shall be as the stones of a crown." — Zechariah ix : 16. 

The Master came to our dwelling, 

And left us a jewel one da}', 
To be cherished and guarded and polished 

Till it shone with luminous ray. 
We knew it was all for His service, 

But the gem in such beaut}^ shone 
We almost forgot, as we watched it, 

It was not indeed our own ! 

The burdens of life grew lighter, 

The home was a holier place. 
The clouds in our dail}- journey 

Left only a passing trace. 
And we thought, what a blessed mission 

To keep in our tenderest care 
The jewel our Master entrusts us, 

So beautiful, bright and fair ! 

We knew that the lengthening shadows 

Would steal o'er our path some da}', 
But we hoj)ed the light at the hearth-stone 

Would shine with a quenchless ray ; 
That we were to be the keepers 

Of this treasure from the skies. 
Till our weaiy hands were folded. 

And the curtain veiled our eyes ! 

Then a darkness thick o'erwhelmed us, 

We groped in its stifling breath. 
For our hearts were torn and bleeding 

By the might}^ hand of death. 
The Master had taken his treasure, 

The jewel that was his own. 
And the added beauties of heaven 

In its radiant lustre shone ! 

So now with our upward yearnings. 

Since the light of our home is fled, 
We bear the burdens unshrinking, 

And the daily pathway tread. 
For heaven, with all of its glory, 

Is brighter and lovelier yet. 
For amid the "stones of the crown" 

Our beautiful jewel is set. 



CABOLINE ANASTASIA SPALDIXG. 44.-) 



ANGELS THIS SIDE. 

Not always do they come with hovering wings, 
Along the path our weary footsteps tread, 

To shieTd us from the taint of earthly things. 
Or solace hearts from which all hope is fled. 

Sometimes in lowly, russet garments clad, 
With hands all hardened by their daily toil, 

They lift the burdens from a life most sad, _ 
And gather blossoms from the humble soil. 

Sometimes the music of a child's sweet voice, 
Its shout of welcome or its pitying sigh. 

Will cause the drooping spirit to rejoice. 
And raise the soul to clearer light on high. 

Angels attend us in the guise of flowers. 
Sweeter than any white-robed spirit band, 

Making the sick room with its weary hours 
An Eden by celestial breezes fanned. ^ 

For with the rustling of their perfumed bells 
Come messages of love from friends most dear. 

Of hope and trust each tiny leaflet tells, 

Smiles for our joys, and for our woes a tear. 

They breathe it in the lonely winds of night ; 

The odor of the lilies whispers now 
Sweet words of courage comforting and bright. 

As if an angel cooled the fevered brow. 

Ah, not alone within the pearly gates 
The ministering spirits gathered stand 1 

In our bleak desert even now there waits 
A shining host of the angelic band ! 

We press their hands, we look into their eyes. 
We hear their words, the faitliful and the tried 

And then we murmur, in our glad surprise, 
'•God bless the angels that we flnd this side !" 



HEAVEN. 

Oh beautiful land of the dim unseen ! 
AVhere the mortal shadow hatli never been !^ 
Where the anoels stand with their folded wings, 
And strike their harps to the King of kings ! 



446 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Where the saints are clothed in their robes of white, 
And on every head is a crown of light, 
While the anthem peals, in a rapturous strain, 
"Glorj' and power to the Lamb that was slain," 

Oh the gates of pearl and the streets of gold ! 
Symbols to us of the riches untold, 
For who shall compare an earthly gem 
With the stars in the Saviour's diadem ? 

Oh blessed land, where no taint of sin 
Shall ever enter the portals within. 
Where doubts and rephiings and self and pride 
Are lost in hosannas to Him who died ! 

Oh haven of peace, where the storm is o'er ! 
Oh healing tree, on the emerald shore ! 
Oh fadeless da}', with no shadowing night ! 
For the Lord our God is its changeless light. 

Bright, beautiful land of the dim unseen ! 
Where the wearied footsteps have never been ; 
Where sorrow is banished, and cares and fears, 
Where they reap in jo}-, that have sown in tears ! 

God grant that at last, in the final day. 
When sects and creeds shall be scattered away, 
With more trusting hearts, and with sweeter laj's, 
We maj' all unite in our Saviour's praise ! 



Samuel ^urn!)am. 

Samuel Burnham was born iu Rindge, February 21, 1833. He was the only eon 
of Amos W. Burnham, D. D., who was a Congregational minister settled in Rindge 
In 1821, and who remained pastor of the church for nearly fifty y^ars. Samuel, at 
the age of eighteen years, entered Williams College and graduated in 1855. For a 
year or two after leaving college he was principal of the academy in Amherst. 
Afterwards he went to Boston and entered upon that career of literai-y industry 
which continued till his death. He was employed by Gen. Sumner to write the 
history of East Boston, a work of about seven lumdred pages. After this he be- 
came connected with the Boston Tract Society, and wrote for the society some 
small volumes setting forth the facts and wonders of Natural History. For twv 
years he was one of the editors of the Congregationalist. Only a little while be- 
fore his death he prepared for the press a full edition of the works of Charles 
Sumner, and at the time of his death he was at work upon the history of the Old 
South Church of Boston. These are but a small part of his literary labors. He 
died June 23, 1873. 



EXTRACT, 

From a Poem delivered at Williams College at Commencement in 18(!: 

O now is the time when indeed 'tis worth living, 
Yes, now is the time when heroes are made ! 

When we for our countiy our life's blood are giving, 
When right against wrong is in battle arrayed. 



SAMUEL BUBNHAM. 447 

Rejoice that j'ou live when j'our native land calls yon 
To fight for the flag of the noble and brave ; 

Indifferent what be the fate that befalls you, 
A hero's proud life — a martyr's lone grave. 

In the far southern laud our brothers are dying, 

With rifle in hand and face to the foe ; 
In many a lone grave their bodies are lying, 

To mam' a lone heart come tidings of woe. 

O rouse in thy might ! — the war-crj' is ringing ! 

O'er hill and through plain the alarum is heard ; 
The God of our fathers sure vengeance is bringing 

On dark-hearted traitors who've taken the sword. 

Fair Liberty, long the poor outcast of nations, 
Has chosen her home in this land of the West ; 

And heaven shall be torn from eternal foundations. 
Ere she fail to find here a haven of rest. 

The storm-cloud of war envelopes the nation ; 

Earth reels with the shock as the huge tempest breaks ; 
New battle-fields shudder with red desolation. 

As the laud from its long sleep of peace now awakes. 

Hark ! hear the loud tramp of the mustering legions, 
Resistless in numbers and firm in their tread ; 

From East and from West, and from far distant regions, 
The}' solemul}- march to the field of the dead. 

See slowl}' uprising the smoke of the battle ; 

The dull heav}' cloud by the lightning's flash riven ; — 
Hark the roar of the cannon, the musketry rattle. 

And the din of the contest that rises to heaven. 

The angel of death o'er the dark field is bending ; 

With skeleton finger is marking his pre}- ; 
O God ! hear the prayers of a nation ascending, 

And turn our dark night of horror to day. 

O God of our fathers, — the God of our nation I 
Our faith is unwavering — our trust is in thee ; 

hear our petition — our land grant salvation. 
And smile once again on the home of the free. 

How long, O how long shall this storm-cloud hang o'er us ? 

How long ere the blood-stained sword shall be sheathed? 
How great is tlie terrible conflict before us, 

How long ere the cannon with flowers shall be wreathed ? 



448 POETS OF NEW HA3fPSmBE. 

Not yet, no, not 3'et, will the battle be ended ; 

We shrink from the path God bids us to take ; 
The cries of the bondmen to heaven have ascended. 

And now is God's time their fetters to break ! 

O'er the din of the battle, o'er war's desolation, 
Like heavj-toned thunder, or the roar of the sea, 

God utters his voice in the ear of the nation, 

And all the world hears, "Let my people go free !" 

Nor justice nor mercy ever have slumbered ; 

God's plagues have been on us for all this abuse ! 
The days of their bondage in Egypt are numbered. 

Thank Heaven, we've no Pharaoh who'll dare to refuse ! 

And then, like the first flash of sunlight from heaven, 

Will victory dawn on a glorious day ; 
And then, like clouds by the mountain winds driven, 

Will trouble and sorrow flee southward away ! 

And lo Triumphe usher in the bright day ! 



INNER LIFE. 

Extract from a College Poem. 

Yet there are precious times when we delight 

To shut the heartless world from out our sight ; 

When sacred thoughts within our inmost soul, 

Thoughts ours alone come welling up, and roll 

In ebb and flow, and dreamy mists arise, 

And gush in tear drops from the half closed eyes ; 

When precious memories of other 3'ears, 

The many joys and sorrows, hopes and fears 

Which crowd a lifetime, seem to us again 

To be lived over in the soul ; and when 

No notes discordant mar the harmony 

Which wrap the senses in sweet ecstasy. 

As when rich music falls upon the ear. 

Anon far distant, and anon, so near, 

The chords, as struck by more than human art. 

Glide gentl}' througli the chambers of the heart ; 

And in the silence, hear the warbling note 

Of rarest melodies that gently float 

On the hushed air, while from the weird-like theme, 

Embossed in shining notes, a fringe doth seem 

To hang, of liquid dropping notes, which round 

The massive chords are so harmonious wound. 



SAMUEL BUBNHAM. 449 



How true it is no spoken words can give 

Form to the best of thoughts which in us live ! 
There is within a life that's all our own, — 
Unread — unspoken — save to us, unknown. 
The outer world may frown, and false prove those 
On whom our weary hearts would fain repose, 
And still within there is a fond relief 
Of untold value, even in its grief. 
There is a twilight of the soul in which we sit. 
And watch our petted fancies as they noiseless flit 
In the stray sunbeams which will sometimes steal 
Into our dai'kest corners, and we almost feel 
As if old earth had vanished from our sight, 
And up to heaven the soul had taken flight. 



"DUM VIVIMUS VIVAMUS." 

Extract from a College Poem. 

A glorious motto this, for human life ! 
AVith all its turmoil and its war and strife. 
Act out life nobl}' ! Live, man, while j-ou liA^e ! 
And to the good and right ^-our powers give, 
Ne'er rest from labor nor your work thiuk done 
'Till o'er the grave your last great victory's won. 
Live earnest lives, fight manfully with sin, 
Fight for the right, and God and you will win. 
Live while you live, — let every passing hour 
Some trophy show of well directed power, 
Relieve some soul with troubles sore oppressed, 
Throw sunshine gleams into some shadowed breast. 
Cause smiles to glisten in the tearful ej'es 
Like rainbows arching through the April skies. 
Oh, do some good ; while life and hope remain 
Assuage some anguish, soothe corroding pain. 
Stand boldly forth for all that's good and true. 
And God erelong will nobl}' honor you. 
Call nothing little that the heart can give ; 
By deeds like these our truest lives we live. 



DECORATION HYMN. 

They rest from the conflict, their labor is ended, 
Their battles are fouglit and their victories gained ; 

Their spirits heroic to (Jod have ascended. 
Their memory is left us with honor unstained. 



450 



POETS OF NEW HAMP8HIBE. 



Beneath the green sod their bodies are sleeping, 
Above them in beauty the dewy grass waves, 

While comrades this day are sacredly keeping, 
And strewing with flow^ers, their glorious graves. 

We know that our flowers will wither and perish , 
Our flags too, will droop in the still summer air ; 

But deep in our hearts their memory we'll cherish. 
With love that the passing years ne'er will impair. 

To us is the weeping, while theirs is the glory ; 

From danger and duty they ne'er turned aside ; 
Heroic their deeds and immortal their story, — 

They fought for their country, and conquering, died. 

No longer they listen the tramp of the legions 
That steadily' marched to the field of the dead. 

From East and from West, and from far distant regions. 
Resistless in numbers and firm in their tread. 

Yes, honor and glory for them are eternal. 

The nation they ransomed their memory will keep ; 

Fame's flowers immortal will bloom ever vernal 

O'er the graves where our heroes in glory now sleep. 



TO MY GRAND-MOTHER. 

Though bleak and chill the wintry wind, though dark the day 

and drear, 
Though lifeless 'neath her icy chains the fettered earth appear, 
Though leafless boughs sway, bent and torn, before the furious 

gale, 
Y'et cold, nor snow, nor wintry blast 'gainst Nature shall prevail. 
She is waiting, only waiting, till the spring days come once moi-e, 
Only clasping close her treasures all the brighter to restore. 

Soon shall the sun's glad warmth and cheer unloose each heavy 

chain. 
The tempest wild have spent its wrath, soft zephyrs breathe 

again, 
With verdure clad, with strength renewed, the flower crowned 

earth shall rise. 
With song of birds and rippliug streams salute the smiling skies. 
After waiting, calmly waiting, she shall rise a queen once more, — 
All her wealth of joy and beauty o'er our happy hearts to pour. 

Though age and care thy form have bowed, though dark thy day 
and drear, 



MABTUA J. HEY WOOD. 4.". I 

Though friends of youth are from thee torn, earth's joys no lon- 
ger cheer, 
Though lonely, weary oftentimes, though strength and vigor fail, 
Yet age, nor pain, nor weariness against thee shall prevail. 
Only waiting, onlj* waiting, till release ft-om earth be given, 
With the heart secure in Jesus how we long for rest in Heaven ! 

But soon shall dawn a brighter day, all clouds be overpast, 

Then mfxy thy spirit upward fly, thy soul find rest at last. 

The loved and lost be found again, full strength for weakness 

given. 
And weariness and pain forgot in perfect bliss in Heaven. 
After waiting, meekly waiting, through these many weary days, 
With the sanctified in glory, sing eternally God's praise ! 



CRADLE SONG. 

Lullaby, lullaby, Cares trouble not thy breast ; 

Baby must sleep ; Naught shall disturb thy rest,— 
Now when the daylight dies, Sleep, baby, sleep. 

Closed be the little eyes ; t ^^ ^ ^ ^^ -i 

Rest till the sun arise,- lullaby, lullaby, 

Sleep, baby, sleep. ,, Baby must sleep ; 

' ' ^ INIother wul watch and pray 

Lullab}', lullab}', Danger ma}' kee}) away. 

Baby must sleep ; Until the dawn of day, — 

Peaceful shall rest tin* head ; Sleep, bab}', sleep. 

Noiseless shall be the tread t n , ^ ^1 ^ 

Round our dear darling's bed,- ^^^^^J^ 1""^ J' 

Sleep, baby, sleep. ^ ^'\^/ "^"'^ '^^"1^ 

^ '' ^ Forms that we cannot see. 

Lullaby, lullaby, Loving are watching thee ; 

Bain- must sleep, Thus ma}' it ever be ! 

No cause for anxious fears ; Sleep, baby, sleep. 

Nor yet for thee the years 
When life must have its tears,— L" laby, lullaby, 

Sleep, baby, sleep. ,, , ^^^>' ^""f.^ «1^^7 5 , . 

God answers from the skies 

Lullab}-, luUab}', JNIother's fond prayers that ris<» ;; 

Baby must sleep ; Bab}' must close his eyes, — 

Baby by Heaven blest 1 Sleep, baby, sleep. 



iirlartija J. |ini>^ootr. 

Mrs. Heywoort, n sister of the late Samuel IJnrnliam. and the youncrest of the family . 
is a native of Kinilge. She married A. 15. neywoocl, of Lowell, ilass., aud resideii. 
iu tliat city several years. Their home is iu Itlceuc. 



452 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 



REST. 

"And there the weary are at rest" — 
At rest upon the Saviour's breast ; 
Safe in that cahn and peaceful home, 
Where sorrow nevermore can come. 

"And there the weary are at rest" — 
The soul by earthly care distressed 
No more shall feel an anxious fear, 
For God shall wipe away each tear. 

"And there the weary are at rest," — 
The head upon His bosom pressed 
Shall never know another pain, 
Nor sad, distracting thoughts again. 

"And there the weary are at rest" — 
The heart's deep longings, unexpressed, 
Shall there be more than satisfied. 
In that sweet shelter where we hide. 

"And there the wear}' are at rest" — 
The broken spirit, here oppressed, 
At last a resting-place has found. 
Where it can never feel a wound. 

"And there the wear}' are at rest" — 
In those fair mansions of the blest, 
"Sorrow and sighing flee away," 
And all is bright, eternal da}'. 



TRUST. 



Dear Saviour, on thy loving breast, 

M}' weary head I lean ; 
Although with guilt and fear oppressed. 

Thy blood can make me clean. 

Thus resting, in thy pitying ear, 

I pour my inmost grief; . 
Thou wilt not chide the falling tear, 

But grant me sweet relief. 

Though many a hope which I have known. 

Lies sadly unfulfilled ; 
Though joys once bright have quickly flown, 

I take what God has willed, — 



MAETHA J. HEYWOOD. 453 

Assured my Father cannot fail 

To lead His cliild in love ; 
O'er seas of doubt I calmly sail, 

Nearing m}' home above. 

If thus my heart can ever lay 

Its heav}' load on Thee, 
Though clouds of sorrow shroud my way, 

No ill can come to me. 

Oh, should I gain that heavenly shore, 

Where m^' lost darlings dwell, 
I'll praise Ilim then, forevermore. 

Who "doeth all things well." 



ALICE. 



The golden sunlight fades awa}'. 

The da3- glides into night ; 
The stars are coming, one by one, — 

I hail theirauilder light. 

The light is fading from m}' heart, — 

Scarce e'en a twilight ray 
Dawns on my weary soul to-night 

To soothe my grief away. 

I think of one who passed from earth, 

In all her beaut}- bright ; 
Our only star — whose light went out 

One year ago to-night. 

Sweet little Alice ! Could our love 
Have had the power to save, 

Our dearest, fondest hopes would ne'er 
Lie buried in that grave. 

Yet though my heart be desolate, 

This jo}' to me is given ; 
To know my darling is at rest ; 

" 'Tis well" with her in heaven. 

O Father, teach thy sorrowing child. 
Through tears, thy hand to see ; 

For thou wilt heal the broken heart. 
That trusts alone in thee. 



454 POETS OF NEW IIAMPSHIBE. 

FALLING, FALLING! 

The rain is falling, falling, My tears are falling, fallijig. 

The night is dark and drear, My grief I cannot stay. 

Deep Tinto deep is calling, My heart is ever calling 

Sad, mournful sounds I hear ! For the loved one far awa}'. 

The rain is falling, falling, A voice is calling, calling, 

On a little far-off grave, "O mother ! look above ! 

Deep unto deep still calling — Here are no tear drops falling. 



I sink beneath the wave. Come to my home of love 



PROVERB POEM. 

"Misery loves company." 

A fox, while skipping o'er hill and dale 
Was cauglit in a trap and lost his tail ; 
And thus of his pride and glory bereft, 
He said, "I have on\y one solace left. 

I cannot endure the taunts and jeers, 
I now shall receive from all my peers ; 
But if I can make them follow suit, 
They will have no cause to laugh and hoot. 

The very first da}' of pleasant weather, 
I'll call the foxes all together. 
And see if my plan will not avail 
To make each fox cut off his tail." 

So he issued a loud and earnest call — 
''Come hither, ye foxes, great and small ; 
I've a dainty feast prepared for you, 
And a tale to tell, both strange and new." 

And far and near was the summons heard. 
As the forests rang with the welcome word ; 
And the foxes came in eager haste. 
Their neighbor's rich repast to taste. 

Then he without the tail arose, 
And said, "dear friends, j'ou see, I suppose. 
That I've lost my tail since last we met. 
And haven't obtained another as yet. 

I see your faces are full of glee. 
But before you laugh, just listen to me ; 
Be patient, and I will make it plain. 
That what seemed a loss is really a gain. 



MARTHA J. HEY WOOD. 455 

And first I'm sure no fox will den}-, 
That in looks I now all others outvie ; 
Tlie tail of which once I was foolishly vain, 
I remember to-day with sorrow and pain. 

Just look at me now, m}- figure behold, 
And say, was I ever so handsome of old? 
And as for convenience, you never will know. 
Till deprived of yoiu' tails, how fast you can go. 

The tail is a heavy liurden to bear, 

A troublesome weight and a useless care ; 

O, take my advice and cut off your tails. 

And swifter than ever you'll roam through the vales." 

AVhile thus he selfishly pleaded his case. 
Another fox rose with a very wise face, 
And said, "Neiglibor fox, allow me to speak ; 
Your words are in vain, 3'our logic is weak. 

'Tis plain to be seen, vou're in a sad plight. 
And to tell you the truth, you look like a fright; 
'Tis useless to tr}' 3-our friends to deceive. 
For none of your arguments do we believe. 

O, had 3'ou been honest, faithful and true, 
Each one of your friends would now pity you ; 
But they who resort to deception and sin, 
Will certainly find they've been taken in. 

I'm sure all these foxes assembled to-day 
"Will fully agree with what I now say ; 
You'd better depart for regions unknown. 
And we'll eat up your dainties after 3-ou're gone." 

The fox heard the words and looked all around 

To see if e'en now one friend might be found ; 

But not one took his part, and each face seemed to say, 

"The best thing you can do is to just run away." 

So fearful was he lest his neighbors give chase, 
Away fied the fox at a very swift pace ; 
And oft as lie wandered he uttered this wail, 
"Alas ! I've no home, and no friends, and no tail!" 

From this simple tale the lesson we learn, 
Our dear "boys and girls" will not fail to discern ; 
'Tis better in patience our sorrows to bear. 
Than to strive to make others our miseries share. 



4.36 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

Tiev. John W. Adams, a son of John and Mary (Taggart) Adams and descendant 
of Henry Adams, ancestor of the Presidents, was born May 23, 1832. He joined 
the N. II. Conf. M. E. Church in 1858. His jJastorates have been Eye, DeiTy, So. 
Newmarket, No. Salem, E. Canaan, Winchester, Gt. Falls— High St., Tilton and 
Newport. In 1863-4-5— lie was Chaplain of the Second N. H. Keg't Vols. In 1877-8-9 
and 80 he was Presiding Elder of Concord District. For several years past he has 
been president of the trustees of the Conference Seminary and Female College at 
Tilton. 



THE BIBLE. 

Precious Bible ! Wisdom's shrine ! 
Gift of heaven ! Book divine ! 
Rescuing from error's night, 
Life immortal, — heavenly light ! 

Ke}^ to nature's mj'stic page, 
Supplement to reason sage, 
Traced b}' hands of old inspired, 
Truth, the wisest have admired. 

Most authentic history. 

Record of antiquity, 

Herald of the coming day, 

When the "earth shall pass away." 

Book revealing love divine. 
Breathing hope in every line, 
Teaching how through Jesus' blood, 
Sinners, cleansed, may rise to God. 

This is Heaven's only creed, — 
Plain, that "he who runs may read ;" 
Aged pilgrim's comfort, guide ; 
Youth may in its truths confide. 

Holy Ghost, with rays divine, 
On this precious volume shine ; 
And in searching may we find 
Treasures, lasting as the mind. 



OUR BABY. 

Though babies count up by the million. 
And all of them fit for the "show ;" 

Yet ours beats the sum total billion. 
Because she's our bab}', 3'ou kuow. 



GEOBGE W. OSGOOD. 45' 

Her ringlets ! O, their like never can be ; 

They all of them curl just so : 
You ought not to smile at m}- fancy, 

Because she's our baby, you know. 

Her complexion out-rivals the fairest ; 

The ciiecks have an angeHc glow ; 
The dimples tliat fleck them, the rarest, 

Because slie's our baby, you know. 

Transcendant expression and lustre, 

And clear as the waters that flow 
Are the ejes with which heaven hath blessed her, 

Because she's our baby, you know. 

Her lips are like lilacs in blossom, 

And the nectar with which tliey o'erflow 

Is sweeter than hive-stores in autumn, 
Because she's our babj', 30U know. 

Her laughter is seraph-like music 

Wafted through the dear home here below ; 

And her sa3-ings more sage than the Delphic, 
Because she's our baby, you know. 

She's a darling, a picture, a pet, 

A cherub from the crown to the toe : 
She has ne'er found her equal as yet, 

Because she's our baby, you know. 



G. Wv Osgood was born in this State, in 1833. His fallicr was a farmer, and he 
follows the same vocation. He was enjraged for some time as a watchman in 
Lawrence, Mass., and in 18.50, went to Boston, wliere he entered a druj? store, and 
remained a ye.ar. He then went west, designing to engage in farming, but not lik- 
ing the country, returned the following sjjring. In 1801 he enlisted as a private in 
the Gth N. H. Volunlcers, and was af terwards promoted to the ollice of lieutenant. 
He was iu various engagements, was wouniled in the second battle of J>ull Uun, 
and subsequently discharged. After regaining his health he purchased a farm iu 
Nelson, where he now resides. 



WELCOME TO SPRING. 

Sweet spring has come ! the bluebird's joyous note 
He whistles oft from limb of leafless tree ; 

The doves have built their nest within the cote, 
And warm the south wind blows across the lea. 

Stern winter long his chilly sceptre swayed, 
And nature helpless bound with icy chain, 



458 POETS OF NEW HAMP8HIBE. 



With snow clad hill and vale and sheltered glade, 
Till earth and man were weary of his reign. 

But spring's warm breath atones for winter's cold ; 

Nature revives, our drooping hearts to cheer ; 
Bids the grim t^-rant, feeble grown and old, 

With train of snow and frost, to disappear 

The robin from his long and forced sojourn 

In southern climes, flies north with pinion free. 

And none more glad to welcome spring's return 
And eager seek his whilom haunts than he. 

That sombre vestured prince of rogues, the crow, 
Who claims the right the farmer's corn to share, 

Long since his northward flight began, and lo ! 
His call is heard upon the morning air. 

Tlie warm and mellow air the frog provokes 

To music, and he pipes his rasping strain. 
While, echoing the madrigal he croaks, 

Thousands are heard in chorus and refrain. 

The hill-side pastures, sere and brown and bare. 

Scant sustenance for herd or flock afford. 
But underneath the withered herbage there 

The fresh young grass is springing thro' the sward. 

Thrice welcome beauteous spring, emblem of youthful bloom. 
Fair pledge of nature's life, and seed-time of the year ; 

Put on thy queenly robes, full swa}* assume, 
Nor haste to bring the burning summer here. 



THE LOVED AND THE. LOST. 

Where are the friends we prized of 3'ore? 

Their memory haunts us like a dream, 
There's onl}^ left a handful more — 

Fast passing down life's shadowy stream. 
The hearts our youthful pleasures shared 

No more shall throb within their breast, ] 
The hands, that kindly for us cared, 

Are folded in their final rest. 
Did fortune favors on us pour? 

They proved their friendship ever true ; 
We trusted them in sorrow's hour. 

For counsel and for comfort too. 
But they have left us sad and lone 



DA VID II. BILL. 4r)9 



To pass the remnant of our race ; 
Scarcely can other friends atone 

Their loss, or wholly fill their place. 
But their dear memory lingers still 

To cheer us in life's rugged way ; 
Though other forms their places fill, 

We deem them near us day by day. 
Death breaks the ties that bind us liere, 

And they must e'er be severed thus ; 
"With lost friends we shall soon appear, 

But never they'll return to us. 
Though earthh' friendship fade and fail. 

May Jesus prove our steadfast friend ; 
And hope secure within the vail 

Sustain and cheer till life shall end. 



mam m> wii 

"Davifl H. Hill was born in North P.crwick, Maine, DccembPr 12, l,*,!."?, and re- 
moved with his father's family to Sandwich in 1837, where he lias since reniaineil, 
except when absent in teaching, or engaged in academical and professional studies. 
He read law in the office of Hon. Sanuiel M. W^heeler and Hon. Joshua G. Hall at 
Dover, and at the Harvard Law School, in the senior class, but did not graduate 
there. He has been engaged in the practice of his profession in Sandwich for 
about seventeen years past, giving little time to otlier pursuits. He was a member 
of the State Legislature in 1870 and 1871, and was appointed to the office of Judge 
of Probate for Carroll County in J880, which position he still holds. 



CHOCORUA. 

Sing me a song, a pleasing song, of the wild granite hills ; 
Some weird old legend of the north, whose mystic romance 

thrills 
Both heart and brain, at thought of deeds that long ago had birth 
Among those ancient hills that stand like giant kings of earth. 

Sing of the buried treasures in the eastern desert caves ; 

The wild bird's mournful burden, as he screams o'er Indian 

waves ; 
'J'he notes of desolation chant, heard in the desert land. 
Where in a gloomy silence still the mouldering temples stand. 

'Tis thine to trace the shadow}- realms where holiest truths are 

wrought, 
And summon wild iniaginings from the free world of thought: 
'Tis thine to trace the welcome light, bursting through (lesert 

gloom, 
And hear the singing angels chant, 'mid silence of the tomb ; — 



4G0 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

By outspread tranquil waters, 'neath the summer skies that sleep, 
In the lone glens and solemn groves, where whispering breezes 

creep, 
Deep in the ancient forest dark, 'mid awful forms and wild. 
Where Nature in a thousand shapes speaks to her chosen child ; — 

Where far o'er might}' ocean's waste the traveller can descry 
Dark incense from the burning hills curl upward to the sky ; 
^V4lere war hounds and the vulture trace the conquering army's 

tread, 
And ghostly catacombs appear, homes of the ancient dead. 

Where'er the dews of genius fall, go to that pleasant clime, 
And mark the footprints — listen to the voices of old Time, 
And sing of the imperial hills, thy romance summon forth. 
And sing some mystic song of old, some legend of the North. 

Along the shores of the wild lakes, 
Among the northern hills that sleep. 
The wild bird's music scarcely breaks 
The silence that the waters keep. 
And twilight shadows gently creep 
Along the wild indented shore, 
And over all the watery floor 
A mirrored surface softly shines. 
In its calm depth, the silent pines 
And the grim mountains seem to stand 
Like giant watchers o'er the land. 

Scarcely two centuries are gone. 
Since o'er that pleasant mountain land. 
Where wild Chocorua's tower of stone 
Seems like an ancient king to stand ; 
The warriors of another race 
Like shadows roamed o'er lake and hill ; 
And now, as ancient legend says, 
Their conscious spirits roam there still, 
Guarding the lonely burial place 
Where sleep the warriors of their race. 

'Tis said that ancient legends show 
In the old ages long ago. 
During Charles Stuart's reign of blood, 
From seaside town oft wandered forth 
'Mong the wild forests of the north, 
Far in New Hampshire's wildest wood. 
Where rocky hills their vigils keep, 



DAVID U. niLL. 4ni 



And lakes round frowning mountains sleep, 
Wild spirits of bold Cromwell's band, 
Who left their homes and native land 
To seek some wilder, lonelier home 
Where Stuart's power might never come. 

By Burton's lake, whose waters lie 
In tranquil sleep, where cloud and sky 
And mount and fiery sunset-gleam, 
In depth of waveless waters, seem 
Like visions wild in fleeting dream, 
Lived in that old historic day 
The propliet chief, Chocorua. 

Declining day's last sunlight fell 
O'er that wild region of the north ; 
Westward, deep gorge and mighty dell, 
Whence mountain rivers issue forth. 
In the increasing darkness slept. 
The panther started from his lair ; 
The wolf from out his cavern crept ; • 
'Mong tangled hemlocks lay the bear, 
Gorging himself in darkness there. 

On such an q\q Chocorua stood 
On that lone height, "The Prophet's Home ;' 
Beneath him lay the unbounded wood. 
Deep gorge, where tumbling torrents foam. 
Towering aloft great Minden rose, 
The dark browed monarch of the west, 
Statel}' and grand, in stern repose 
Lifting to heaven his wooded crest. 

On this wild scene the prophet gazed 

While daylight deepened into night; 

When, on the Indian's vision, blazed, 

Beside the eastern lake, a light ; 

A single camp fire shone afar 

Through the dark pines like evening's star. 

Lighting the sacred burial place 

Where slept the heroes of their race. 

He knew it was no meteor lamp, 

As ofttimes flashes on the eje 

Amid the exhalations damp, 

Where the low, mist}- moorlands lie ; 

Strangers e'en now from eastern waves 

Were feasting by his fathers' graves, 



462 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Who came from regions far away, 
To roam o'er sacred lands at will, 
B}' mountain, forest, lake and bill. 
Nor recked where sleeping warriors lay. 

'Twas after that historic da}^ 
When tidings o'er the sea were blown 
That Cromwell's power was passed dwa}-, 
And Stuart sat on England's throne, — 
That thronging o'er the Atlantic tide 
Came fugitive and regicide 
• From Albion's fairj^ isle, in quest 
Of safetj' in the distant west. 

But messengers of kingly wrath, 

In sunless forests far awa}'. 

Traced through dark wilds the wanderer's path, 

Where streams down lonesome A'allej's play ; 

Hunted through gloomy waste and wild. 

Driven through noisome fens to roam 

With .nature and her savage child, 

The hunted outcast found his home ; 

In lonely vales his camp fires burned, 

Then to remoter wilds he turned. 

To granite mountains, white and cold. 

Where ancient Indian legends told 

Once dwelt the Prophet Kings of old. 

Leader of that Cromwellian band, 
Cornelius Campbell led them forth. 
Over the vast, untrodden land. 
O'er mountain, vale, and barren sand, 
Back to the wild, enchanted north. 
Where Burton's ancient mountains rise, 
Where her pure, azure lakelet lies. 
And weird Chocorua meets the skies. 

O'er river, plain and forest wide. 
With that bold leader came his bride ; 
She came, capricious Nature's child, 
A priestess, to that lonely wild ; 
As watch-fires on some lonel3' height 
Light the dark woods like sunset's smile, 
As star on "Ethiop's brow of night" 
Gilds the dark waters qf the Nile, 
So that 3'oung I'airy of the woods 
Gladdened those savage solitudes. 



DAVID H. HILL. 403 

'Twas on November's waning daj^ 

The sun in southern skies hung low, 

Fale light on dying woodlands lay, 

That northward stretched lor leagues away. 

To glittering hills in wastes of snow. 

By Burton's lake "the prophet stood" 
While evening shadows gentl}' fell 
O'er fading lake and darkening wood ; 
When from a gloomy mountain dell 
Came the wild panther's savage 3ell, 
That strange, wild, piercing, awful cry 
Rose upward to the vaulted sky, 
Fearful as the near thunder's jar, 
Then died in mountain glens afar. 

Nearer, again, that awful cry 

Froze the quick blood with curdling chills ; 

A hundred echoes made reply, 

Pealing along the northern hills. 

From out the dusk a stranger came, 
The monster met him in his path. 
With quivering limb and ej'es of flame, 
AVrithing in wild majestic wrath : 
With upraised arm the stranger spoke, 
In flash of fire and wreath of smoke, 
He spoke as the Great Spirit speaks 
In clouds be3'ond the mountain peaks, 
When jagged, arrowy lightnings fl}' 
Through dark pavilions of the sky, 
And shuddering mountains make reply. 

Soon ebbed the monster's life away, 
And dead at Campbell's feet he lay. 
Amazed tlie prophet stood, and saw 
The thrilling scene with solemn awe. 
And oft in mountain solitudes. 
Wandering beneath the midnight sky, 
Met these stern tenants of the woods 
As uneventful years rolled by. 

But sorrow, anger, wrath and gloom. 
Were "greeding in the days to come ;" 
When from his kindred, friends, and home 
The prophet turned, alone to roam 
O'er liowling wastes, and wandered forth 
Deep in the desolate, wild north. 



464 FOETS OF NEW HAMP8HIBE. 

To visit tribes, remoter far, 

111 realms beneath the northern star. 

His son, the child of many a prayer. 
His twilight star, his people's pride. 
Trusted to Campbell's guardian care, 
Like a frail floweret drooped and died. 

With ancient kings his graA-e was made, 
And in the sombre hemlock shade. 
To dreamless sleep the boy was laid. 
From mound where ancient Sagamore 
Sleeps on the lonel}', peaceful shore, 
A midnight wail rose to the sky ; 
Only bleak nature made reply ; 
Its burden all the forest stirred ; 

Such bitter, grieving, anguished cry 
As once from mourning Rama heard. 
As one whose farewell glance is cast 
To groves where sleep the kindred dead. 
Turning from tender memories past 
And sacred joys, forever fled. 
Invokes tlie God of heaven and earth 
To give some new creation birth, 
Some consecration, that may rise 
From the crushed heart that bleeding lies. 

So from that lowly, sacred tomb. 

The prophet turned back to the gloom ,- 

And cold, strange mystery of night. 

The heavens, in starry silence bright, 

"•Over the empty spaces" hung; 

Nor breath of heaven, nor human tongue, 

Nor aught the solemn silence stirred 

Save midnight wail of forest bird, 

Or lordly river, gliding slow. 

Through ancient woods with peaceful flow. 

Nor passion wilder or more fell. 
Within the human breast e'er burned ; 
Nor lit with blacker fires of hell. 
Than in that breast for vengeance yearned 
As on his wild, bewildered brain, 
Gradual the awful thought had birth. 
By Campbell's hand his boy was slain. 
His race was stricken from the earth. 



DAVID n. HILL. 4(;r, 



'Twas midnight's hour of hoi}'' rest ; 
He saw the stars sink down the skj^ 
Be3'ond the inountains of the west, 
And cold, bright meteors gHding b}', 
And ghostl}- nionntains towering high; 
The glorious pageant of the hour 
Gave his wild brain intenser power. 

Where Burton's ghostly mountain throws 
His gloom}' shade at day's calm close, 
A streamlet plays with gentle moan 
Down from Chocorua's heart of stone. 
And weird shapes, with avenging frown, 
From dizz}' mountain heights look down. 
And where that gentle streamlet pla3S, 
Among wild rock}' solitudes, 
'Mid sylvan scenes, in other days, 
Cornelius Campbell's cottage stood. 

His bride — the beautiful and young, 
(Like some rich gem of purest ray, 
Idly by jewelled fingers liung 
To gloomy ocean depths away,) 
Was the bright star, the constant light, 
That beamed on that wild desert land ; 
None walked the earth in purer white. 
None wielded power with gentler hand. 

O'er his wild empire of the north 

Cornelius Campbell wandered forth. 

At eve of that eventful day, 

His wife and child all ghastly lay 

In the long, dread, appalling, deep 

Silence of the eternal sleep. 

He knew the fierce avenger's brand ; 

He knew what dread destroyer's hand 

Had placed Death's seal on Beauty's brow. 

Only grim vengeance nerved him now. 

Saw ye Chocorua's cold, gray height 
Radiant in gold at set of sun? 
Knew ye, at morn's returning light, 
What deeds of darkness had been done 
Beneath the holy sifars of night? 

The sun adown the golden west 
O'er Passaconway's dome was set ; 



406 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

When on Chocorua's cold, sharp crest 

The stern, avenging warriors met. 

The prophet spolve : "We meet at last ; 

And yet, for one, no morn shall rise ; 
Then let his farewell glance be cast 
Up to the solemn, starr}' skies, 
For wrongs that may not be forgiven 
Cry out for vengeance up to Heaven." 

With hand uplifted to the sky 

Cornelius Campbell made reply : 

"Speak you of wrongs yet unforgiven ? 

Wrongs that cry up from earth to Heaven? 

By Him who kindled the great sun 

I swear, no wrong by me was done, 

But crimes m}' lips forbear to tell, 

Such as insatiate fiends of hell 

Might plot, in your wild brain were planned, 

And wrought by your twice murdering hand. 

We meet, in deadliest hate, alone 

On this bleak mount, this, tower of stone, 

In the cold silence of the sky ; 

Now witness. Heaven's avenging eye. 

I'll hurl 3'ou from this mountain's brow 

Down to that yawning gulf below, 

Where onl}' bird or beast of prey 

Shall bear your whitened bones away." 

Chocorua spoke : "Where in the deep, 
Wild north, earth's ancient mountains rise, 
Where bright 'Siogee's waters sleep, 
And under yet remoter skies. 
Our warriors roamed o'er all the land ; 
On this great mount whereon we stand 
Have prophets kings and heroes stood, 
And gazed on earth's vast solitude. 
No fitter place beneath the sky 
Than this wild home in upper air, 
Hallowed by many a prophet's prayer, 
To meet dire vengeance, or to die." 

One moment of Hate's deadliest strife. 

Like tigei's grappling, life for life, 

And the last prophet of his land 

La}' crushed beneath his conqueror's hand. 

He knew the fatal grasp ; his last, 



DAVID H. niLL. iCu 

Despairing glance to heaven was cast, 
As if to see witli dying eyes 
The gleaming lakes of Paradise. 

The victor dragged him to the brow 

Of the dread mount whereon they stood ; 

Pointing to awful depths below, 

He spoke : "Deep in yon gloomy wood 

The grey wolf hungers for your blood ; 

And grim death waits — Now, murderer, go." 

Down to a j-awning, sunless vale, 
O'er frowning battlements, he fell. 
Rang from his lips a wild, death wail, 
And barren hills gave back his knell. 
A fiery star, a meteor bright. 
Shining athwart the sombre sky. 
Hung on the orient brow of night. 
Each star looked down with solemn e3'e ; 
Round Whiteface, baleful meteors swung ; 
JMinden's dark brow was bathed in light, 
A death song on the Minds was sung. 
Ne'er heard till that portentous night. 
Pale lights danced over lake and wood, 
The chainless Saco blushed in blood, 
And pitying angels, hovering nigh, 
"Walked the cold heavens with mourning eye. 



SQUAM LAKE. 

A peaceful lake, b}' frowning woods o'erliung, 
Sleeps like bright waters among Alpine hills ; 
No voice is heard, nor lisp of jiunian tongue, 
Nor sound, save gentle moan of purling rills ; 
'Tis far awa_y beyond the purple mountains. 
Beyond the sunset clouds of golden hue ; 
Far in the west, among the crvstal fountains 
That gush from earth to smile 'nealh skies of blue. 
When sinks the sun o'er wooded hills to rest, 
AVhile golden radiance of the burning west 
Fades o'er the billows with the finding day ; 
When midnight lamps o'er moon-bright waters play, 
And crimson clouds, tinted with fiery hue, 
Look from the waveless depths to depths of blue ; 
When myriad stars burn in the silent lake, 
While flashing waters round dark islands break ;. 



468 POETS OF NEW HAMP8HIBE. 

When gleaming wavelets at the set of sun 
Bask in his glories when his course is run ; — 
As breaks tlie sweet, wild vision on the eye, 
We dream — and roam in classic Italj'. 



iimarg Blalte Eane. 

Marj' B. Lane, second daughter of the late Deacon Ezekiel aud Mrs. Mary R. 
Lane of Candia, was born at the old Maple Hill Home in Candia, Dec. -28, 1*53. 
8he deceased there Oct. 28, 1879. Her verse perfectly illustrates the exalted tenor 
of her character and life. Miss Lane was a sister of IMrs. Harriet N. Eaton, whose 
poems appear upon earlier pages of this volume. She was deaf, and hence the 
poem "The Deaf Girl's Thought of Music" has touching pathos. 



THE DEAF GIRL'S THOUGHT OF MUSIC. 

tell me what is music like? 
What bright form that I see 

Resembles most that wondrous thing 
Ne'er yet revealed to me ? 

They say the angels long ago 

Sang at Creation's birth, 
And ever since heaven-born strains 

Have floated o'er the earth. 

And such is music's origin, 

But its delicious spell 
Has never roused m}' slumb'ring ear, 

Or made my pulses thrill. 

1 hear no answ'ring gush of sound 
When o'er the tuneful keys. 

The skilful fingers lightly sweep, 
Waking sweet melodies. 

The mighty organ's swelling notes, 

The anthem's peal sublime. 
That bears the kindling spirit up 

Beyond the bounds of time, — 

The simple lay, the mother sings 

Above her infant's rest. 
The strains that soothe the couch of pain, 

Or calm the suffering breast, — 

The merry song that's carolled by 

Glad lips from sorrow free. 
And the low, mournful dirge, — are all 

Mysterious to me. 



MAEY BLAKE LANE. 469 

Tliev tell nie Nature's realm is full 

Of voices, grand and sweet, 
That sing together evermore 

In harmony complete ; 

But not for me, the innsic wild 

Of bird and murm'ring bee, 
Or the unending symphony 

Of the blue, restless sea. 

Yet, though my ear can never list 

To melod}- of earth, 
I know that it shall be unsealed 

At m}- celestial birtli. 

And O, what rapture shall be mine 

When that new sense is given ! 
How blissful, even now, to think, 

That I shall hear in heaven ! 



THE LAND OF THE LIVING. 

Is this the realm of life? 
This land where death its dismal shadow flings 
O'er all we love? waging incessant strife 

With earth's most precious things? — 

And Summer's frailest flower. 
That withers ere the glowing noon is past. 
Is life's best emblem ; — ^outh and fame and power 

Like blossoms fade at last. 

The spoiler's chilling breath 
Falls on the good and fair, and the}' decay ; 
Nought is undying but thy rule, oh death ! 

The wide world owns thy sway. 

Life counts its children here 
By millions ; the pale and shadowy bands 
That people thy dominions vast and drear 

Are countless as the sands. 

Earth's soil is strewn with graves ; 
Myriads lie in dreamless slumber calm ; 
Above myriads more, the ocean waves 

Lift up their dirge-like psalm. 



470 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIEE. 

Still, as the hours glide on, 
The shrouded form and solemn funeral knell 
And broken households whence the light has flown 

Of death's new conquests tell. 

Life's only true domain 
lyies pure and bright beyond the shades of time ; 
No breath of soitow, no defiling stain 

Rests on that sinless clime ! 

Its joy-illumined strand 
By earthly mists is veiled from mortal sight, 
But seers of olden time in vision grand 

Caught glimpses of its light. 

The city of our God ! 
Whose gates of pearl death enters never more, 
Whose golden street b}' angel steps are trod, 

Adorns that blissful shore. 

Through valleys ever fair 
The living waters, gently murmuring, flow. 
And trees of life, in that celestial air, 

With fruits immortal glow. 

And they who passed away. 
The loved ones that we missed with manj' tears, 
In that sweet home that knows no sad decay, 

Dwell through eternal j-ears ! 



Ii^cnrg (J^aitcs l^cnt. 

Col. Kent was born in Lancaster, Feb. 7, 1834. He graduated at Norwich fMili- 
tary) University, in 18.54. He studied law and was adniitteil to the bar iu 1S58, and 
from that year till 1870 he was owner and editor of the Coos Repuhlican. Since 
then he has been engaged, outside his office business, in banking, manufacturing 
and farming. He was Assistant Adjutant General of the State on the breaking 
out of the rebellion, and assisted in recruiting and organizing early regiments. 
He was subsequently Colonel of the 17th Volunteer Infantry. Since 1855 he has been 
considerably in public life, as clerk and member of the House, Bank Commissioner, 
Commissioner to adjust the eastern boundary of the State, Presidential Elector, and 
nominee of the Democracy for Congress, having frequently canvassed and stump- 
ed the state. 



ONWARD ! 

Onward, onward, ever onward. 
Striving early, battling late. 

Hew with manliness the long road 
Leading up the mount of Fate ! 

Onward press with straining sinews, 



HENBY OAEES KENT. 471 

On with bosom nobly bared. 
Onward 'mong life's restless winnows 

Where its empt}' chaffs declared ! 
Onward, tighten up tliine armor, 

Read anew thy purpose high. 
Bow thee not before the charmer. 

Quail thou not neath malice's e3'e ; 
Slander's venom, envy's curses 

Pass thou all unheeded b}"". 
They shall load thee with caresses, 

When thou gainest yon mountain high ! 
Poverty with shrunken finger. 

Sickness gaunt, with hollow cheek, 
From the path may bid thee linger, 

Bid thee falter, trembling, weak, — 
Wave anew thy streaming banner. 

Fling its motto to the wind — 
Ye who for Fame's banquet hunger, 

Meaner troubles leave behind ! 
Press thee on, though dark and dreary 

Fall the midnight overhead ; 
Press thee on, thy footsteps weary 

Honored paths of peace shall tread ! 
Press thee on, though swollen surges 

Seem to whelm thee from above ; 
Press thee on — Time's glowing pages 

Yet shall tell a People's love ! 
Press thee on through doubt and danger. 

Never fainting, never weak ; 
Press thee on. Fame's voice, a stranger 

To thv waiting ears, shall speak ! 
Onward ! — nobly doing — daring, 

Doubt and danger winning past, 
Onward still, thy flag uprearing, 

Victory shall come at last ! 

1857. 



WELCOME HOME! 

For the celebration of the Centennial Anniversary of the town of Lanrastor, 
July 14, 1864. 

The mountains look down, in their grandeur and pride, 

On the home of our childhood to-day ; 
On the wandering children who strayed from their side 

To gather rare flowers by the way. 



472 POETS OF NEW HAMP8HIBE. 

They're united again in the deai- old town, 
'Mong the streams and the woods of yore, 

They have fought well the fight for gold and renown, 
And they, turn to their childhood's door. 

There are those who have lingered around the old home. 

While their brethren were far in the strife ; 
Who have tilled the old fields in the years that are past, 

In the quiet and comfort of life ; 
These welcome 3 e back, with hearts full of joy — 

A joy that commingles Avith pride, 
As the}'^ greet with affection each wandering boy 

To the town where his forefathers died. 

We gather to-day amid scenes so endeared, 

To crown with the fame of her sons 
The time-silvered locks of the mother revered, 

While an hundred long winters have flown ; 
To wreathe a full chaplet of daughters' warm love 

'Mid the silvery sheen of her hair, — 
As enduringly pure as the azure above 

That smiles on ^n homage so fair. 

Welcome home from the East and the West and the South, 

Welcome home on this dear natal daj' ; 
The kiss of some loved one is warm on each mouth ; 

Ye have tarried a long time awa}- — 
Welcome home, and forgetting the wearying care 

That compassed the pathway' ye trod. 
Throw off" the chill years and be .young again here, 

In the smile of a love born of God. 

Welcome home to each spot so remembered of 3'ore, 

Welcome home to each love that endures ; 
Gather strength for the journey that stretches before, 

Ere our sails leave life's vanishing shores ; 
Go forth from among us with tokens of love. 

Glad burdens that weary not down ; 
So shall memory's banquet be spread as ye rove 

From the home 3'e have cherished — our dear old town. 



BERTIE. 

When the bright autumn had gathered its harvest. 
Ripened and blest by the rays of the sun, 

Crowning our garner, with fruitage the fairest, 
Dear little Bertie's existance begun. 



SARAH n. FOSTER. 



Sumach and bird plum and glowing red maple, 
Breezes that rustle where laughing streams run, 

Note the glad fact on time's radiant table, 
Bertie our darling, is one times one ! 

18G7, 



Miss Foster is a native of Portsmouth. Her Jife has beeu very uneventful; the 
only variation from the regular routine of home duties, consisting In two visits to 
Europe, the last of which was made in 1881-'S2. 



ON THE DEATH OF A FIRST-BORN CHILD. 

'And the Lord said unto Moses, sanctify unto me all the flrat-born, they are mine. 

Lord ! unto thy Hebrew people 
Spake of old thy law divine, 
'•Consecrated to my service 
All the first-born shall be mine." 
Such the offering that we bring thee ! 
Thou hast asked it, it is thine ! 

This sweet bud, not yet unfolded, 

Tearfully we lay it down ; 

We had prayed to rear it for thee, 

Take it Lord, it is thine own ; 

Weave it, now we only pray thee, » 

Weave it in our heavenly crown. 

Many hopes — how dear and tender 
Thou who gav'st them only knew — 
On thine altar we surrender, 
Humbl}' owning them thy due. 
Lord we gave our hearts unto thee, 
Thine be all our treasures too ! 

His fair brow so calm and sinless, 
Earthly spring shall never kiss ; 
These dear feet shall never wander 
Through a world so rough as this ; 
This sweet spirit's earliest smiling 
Shall be waked by heavenly bliss. 

Meet it is that pure affection 
Place its earliest pledge above ; 
Its first olive leaf sent heavenward, 
• Borne by the celestial Dove. 
God of (4race ! accept our offering ! 
Take our darling to tliy love. 



474 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

STANZAS, 

Written for the Soldiers' Fair, 1869. , 

Not long ago 
A darker cloud our country's sky o'ercast 
Than wliirling storm-rifts on November's blast ; 
When Winter, stealing through sad Autumn's gate, 
Found deeper cold on hearths made desolate, 

Than all his snow. 

It is not long 
Since timid Spring on her first southern breath 
Brought news of terror and a scent of death ; 
Since Summer met no answer to her smiles ; 
And the drum's clangor in her leaf}' aisles 

Hushed the birds' song. 

Have we forgot 
The ranks that answered Freedom's warning bell, 
Braved the death-tempest and the prison-hell. 
With sturdy hearts hurled back the impending doom, 
But when the trump of victory called them home. 

Responded not? 

Not all forget ! 
The struggling widow keeps with tears the day 
That turned her staff to dust, her hope to clay. 
The shadow on the mother's brow, that fell 
When her brave darling kissed his last farewell, 

Is brooding yet. 

Some yet can tell 
Of hours of anguish, worse than sudden doom, 
That left them helpless in a helpless home, 
Crippled or broken from the cruel strife, 
Fettered forever in the race of life 

By painful spell. 

Oh hearts at ease ! 
Your ease was bought at price of other's pain ; 
Another's loss your ransom and your gain ; 
Your homes secure with flowers of jo}- are strewn, 
But other homes grew dark to bless your own ; 

Remember these ! 

With open band 
Pay back the debt, where not, alas ! too late ; 
Bid comfort seek the hearths left desolate ; 
Save those who saved you from misfortune's blast, 
And prove our country, mindful of the past, 

A grateful land ! 



HARRIET MCEWEN KIMBALL. 475 

f^arriet IHclHtoeu mimball. 

Miss Kimball's first published book was "Hymns," which appearert in 1867. It 
gave her at once a reputation. "Swallow Flights of Song," was published in 1874: 
and her third work, "The Blessed Company of all Faithful People," was issued id 
1879. Portsmouth is the place of her nativity and has always been her home. 



"THE BLESSED COMPANY OF ALL FAITHFUL 
PEOPLE." 

Between the gray dawn and the golden day 

Methotight low murmurs troubled all the land ; 

Disquietude and strife wliere should be peace, 

In the white tents of that sweet Prince of Peace 

Whose hosts encamp amidst "a naughty world." 

As swelled the murmurs, under all I heard 

The sighing of tlie leaders, men of praj-er, 

Steadfast in faith thougli sometimes faint of voice, 

Worn with the heat and burden of the day, 

And the half-hearted zeal of man}' a rank ; 

And harsh above their sighings louder rose 

The sounds of part}' and opposing speech ; 

And louder yet the petty-tongued complaints 

Of such as had not learned obedience — 

That first, last law for these rebellious hearts, 

Given of God and taught of Holy Church. 

Anon, and piercing all the clamor tlirougb. 

The Lord's own heralds blew their bugle-notes — 

For He would set the faithful in array. 

Then sudden silence made a little space 

For the One Voice that fills the universe. 

And Christ's own roll-call swept the white camp througl 

And lo ! the faithful noiseless moved as thought ; 

Responsive, yet unconscious of response, 

Their rapt eyes lifted to tiie shining morn 

As seeing Him who is invisible ! 

He named them clan by clan. His chosen ones ; 

The poor in spirit and the souls that mourn. 

The meek and those for righteousness athirst, ; 

The merciful, the pure in heart, the just. 

The valiant, the fbrbenring, named He thus ; 

For every clan a benediction sweet. 

And sweeter promises of victory — thus : ^ 

Blessed are the poor, 

(Jesus spake,) 

Poor in spirit, for My sake ; 



467 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Who seek the glory of this world no more, 
Nor gather riches that shall fly away : 
Of the heavenly kingdom heirs are "they. 

Blessed, 

Blessed the}' who mourn, He said ; 

Precious are the tears they shed, 

The ashes on the bow^d head ; 

All their sins confessed, 

The}' shall be comforted. 

Blessed are the meek 

Who seek 

The Father's will in quietness and peace, 

CaVing little for all things beside ; 

They shall increase 

And with the fulness of the earth be satisfied. 

Blessed they, He said, 

After righteousness an-hunger6d ; 

Blessed the}' whose thirst 

The pleasures of this woi'ld accursed 

Have not stilled ; 

With My bread 

Shall the famished be fed ; 

With My wine the parched lips be filled. 

Blessed, blessed they, 

The merciful, whose ears 

Are swift to hear the crying of distress ; 

Soft as the rain in summer fall their tears. 

Their place is found beside the fatherless ; 

Yea, 

Blessed they 

To whom the outcast and the poor complain 

Not in vain ; 

Mercies numberless 

They hereafter shall obtain. 

Blessed are the pure in heart, He said ; 

Whos# feet the paths of holiness do tread, 

AVhose looks are God-ward and whose hands are clean 

Through glories manifold 

Shall they behold 

Him wliom no eye hath seen. 



HAEBIET MCEWEN KIMBALL. 



Blessed they who seek 

To turn all strife to peace ; 

Whose words are as a covert to the weak, 

Who make the anger of the strong to cease ; 

Children of God siiall they 

Be called for aye. 

Blessed they who steadfast stand 

Through persecutions dread ; 

Though on ever3' hand 

The wicked l)end the bow 

To lay them low ; 

Theirs the kingdom never vanquished. 

Blessed 3'e when men revile 

And persecute 3-ou falsely, for My sake ; 

Ye who, walking without guile, 

With Me partal<e 

Shame and scorn awhile. 

Yea, rejoice, 

Ye who fl\' not from the arrows of the strong ; 

Be exceeding glad, for unto you is given 

Great reward in Heaven ; 

Even now lift up your voice 

In victorious song ; 

For so persecuted they 

The prophets in their day : 

Again, rejoice. 

Then all the winds of heaven : Amen! Amenl 



THOU ART A PLACE TO HIDE ME IN. 

Without, I hear the beating of the rain, 

The howling winds that tell the storm's increase 

O covert sure that he who seeks may gain ! — 
Within, abideth peace. 

Without, I hear the sound of feet that halt 
And groi)e and stumble in the blinding night ; 

O l)lessed faith that serveth in default 
Of what men call the light ! 

O rest, O wayside inn, where homo is not. 
For the poor pilgrim to that city fair. 

Where strife shall cease and doublings be forgot! 
The Lamb, the Light is there ! 



478 FOETS OF NEW HAMFSHIBE. 

HYMN FOR ADVENT. 

Breathe, virgin souls, anew tlie vows 
Your heavenly Bridegroom claims ! 

His sign 3'e wear upon your brows 
Traced in baptismal flames. 

Oh, by that sweet and awful sign 

He calls you to be wise ; 
Earth's glory wanes, the suns decline, 

And midnight wins the skies. 

Arise, love's holy lamps to trim. 
With faith their flame renew, 

Lest He who cometh find them dim 
And sleep possessing 3'ou. 

He cometh — when ? "Who answereth when ? 

Who names his nameless day ? 
The word he spake he speaks again, 

Yet neither yea, nor nay. 

Watch ! Watch ! His solemn charge alone : 

And ever}- beat of time 
Repeats in awe's unchanging tone 

The Lord's own word sublime. 

Blest watch ! or long the hours or brief; 

The Bridegroom shall appear. 
To hearts wherein his love is chief, 

Even now he draweth near. 



A HYMN OF CONTRITION. 

Since for Thy lips were mingled, O ray Lord, 

The vinegar and gall. 
Should I not say, earth's sweet things be abhorred, 

And sweet earth's bitter call ! 

Since thou for me the cup of death didst drain — 

Yea, O m}' Lord, for me ! — 
My cup of ills should I not take as fain 

To share one draught with thee ? 

O Victor-Victim, though the flesh afraid 

Sink trembling at thy feet. 
Cast over it thy jjity's awful shade 

And hear me thee entreat ! 



HAREIET MCEWEN KIMBALL. 479 



Make Thou these tears of penitence and shame 

For sin and frailties all, 
More sharp than vinegar, more hot than flame, 

And bitterer than gall. 

Then Lord, in every draught wilt thou distil 

Thine own exceeding peace, 
To sweeten all the cup earth's sorrows fill, 

Till earth and sorrow cease. 



JESUS MY REFUGE. 

Jesus, my refuge ! to the secret places 

Where thou dost hide, I flee. 
To learn thy blessed truth, from all the mazes 

Of human thought set free. 

Without denial and without refraining 

I must receive thy word ; 
Not what thou meanest after man's explaining, 

But what thou sayest Lord ! 

Shut from the strife of tongues that yield confusion, 

(^uick grows the inward car 
Thy sweet assurance, stripped of all delusion, 

In humble faith to hear. 

In mysteries beyond the dim perceiving 

Of reason's clouded eyes. 
Thou dost reveal thyself to souls believing — ■ 

Too loving for disguise. 

And oh, how loving, dearest Lord, how tender 

Beyond all love thou art. 
When to thy feet we chug in full surrender, 

With sorrow-broken heart ! 

Absolving, healing, strengthening, uniting, 

Through sacramental grace, 
And to communion closer yet inviting. 

Thou dost unveil thy face. 

For fiuth alone, low-kneeling in contrition. 

The load of sin grows light ; 
To faith alone tliou dost vouchsafe that vision, 

And fuilh is almost sight. 



480 POETS OF NEW HAMP8HIEE. 

THE LIGHT OF LIGHT. 

The morning bi-eaks, the shadows flee, 
The gracious skies are clear and briglit ; 

O Light of Light, we turn to tliee ; 
Without thy rays it still were night. 

The mid-day sun may cloudless shine, 
And all our way seem smooth and fair ; 

There are no rays save only thine 

Can show the quicksand or the snare. 

And when the storms of sorrow beat, 
And darkness falls, and joj^ takes flight, 

Thy presence is a sure retreat. 
And in our dwelling there is light. 

O Jesus, fount of joy and grace, 
That light on all our darkness pour, 

Until beyond these nights and daj^s 
We dwell in light foreverraore ! 



VALE. 



Good-night, O Earth ! the nights are growing long ; 

The days are brief; 
Life hath one solemn burden for its song : 

"As fades the leaf." 

Good-night, poor World ! if thou art full of sin. 

Why, so am 'I ! 
In this proud heart to judge would I begin, 

Nor self pass by. 

Good-night, my foe ! not all the wrong is thine ; 

My share I own ; 
Forgive ! — we, human, know one word divine ! — 

The sun goes down. 

Good-night, good friend ! though poor my gifts to thee, 

I will not fret ; 
The richer thou whose bounty is so free, 

And sweet my debt. 

No longer to revenge nor to repay 

I strive or seek ; 
Empty I came — must empt}- go away, 

Empty and weak. 



LUCY BOGEIiS HILL CROSS. 4«1 

As one who wakes no more to smile or weep 

Another day, 
So would I lay me hiunl)ly down to sleep, 

And humbly say : 

O Thou who hadst not where to lay thy head, 

As poor were I, 
Did not thy mere-}' make for me a bed 

Whereon to die. 



UUCP l\OQcrs i^ill atrogis. 

Mrs. Cross was born in Northlield, July 9, 1834. She gi-aduateil in ISOO at the 
N. H. Conference Seminary ami Female College, having previously taught all the 
schools in her native town," hut one, and several terms in adjoining towns. Alter 
graduation she became assistant in the Merrimack Grammar Schgol, in Concord, 
leaving in lSB-2 to teach in Melrose, Mass. She returned to Concord alter two 
years, and became principal of the school in which she had been an assistant. 
She was married to Oliver L. Cross, a graduate of Dartmouth and a member of the 
bar; and in IscT they went to Montgomery City, Mo., hut returned after three years 
to Noi-thfield, where they now reside. 



A SONG OF THP: HOUR. 

JAN., 1882. 

With ring and jingle and faces bright. 

Out in the air of tlie frosty night, 

Go the sleigh riders, with laughter and song, 

Waking the eclioes, they hurry along. 

Out from the lights of the village away. 

On past the wood where the winter birds stay. 

Past the bright homes of tlie hill-slopes beyond, 

Down b}- the meadows a-skirting the pond, 

Never once heeding the wind or the cold. 

For the horses are fleet and the driver is bold. 

Ring and jingle the resonant bells. 

And the mingled laughter the merriment swells. 

One would almost envy the Laplanders bold. 
In their Arctic liome so icy and cold, 
As, clad in their snowy furs, out in the night 
Their sledges keep time to the reindeer's flight. 
And the waving Aurora writes joy on the sky. 
As the long hours of winter go joyousl}- b}- ; 
For there's nothing on earth one half so gay 
As a rollicking ride in a rushing sleigh. 

Little they know who dwell in that clime 

Where winter disturbs not the sweet summer time 



482 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Of the rush of the pulse and the cheek's ruddy glow 
That come from a dash when the sleigh riders go. 
I^et him staj' behind who chooses, I go 
To share a pleasure he never can know. 
Talk not to me then of the charms of the Ma}', 
Or the fragrant flowers that on June's bosom lay. 
Of the whippoorwill's song or the sweet scented hay, 
Or the wild-wood chorus at breaking of da}' ; 
For nothing — no, nothing can ever compare 
With a rushing ride through the frost laden air. 



SCENES FROM REAL LIFE. 

FIRST SCENE. 

Draw down the curtains and turn down the light, 
On the broad liearth-stone the embers are bright, 
Grandpa is keeping the children to-night. 

How like a king he sits in his pride. 
Sweet little Roger and Jennie beside ; 
Little they care for the dark world outside. 

How the laugh echoes, the stories go round, 
How 1,he cheeks redden, the little hearts bound ; 
Grandpa once more his boyhood has found ; 

How the flames flicker and dance on the walls. 

As he tells them of Brigands and ghost-haunted halls ; 

And the wind whistles loud and the icy rain fulls. 

Breathless they list to each tale of affright, 
"How goblins looked into men's windows at night, 
And every lone dell was the haunt of some sprite." 

Of little "Red Riding Hood" out in the wood 
Carrying cheer to her grandmother good. 
How in her pathwa}' the grim monster stood, 

Eyes fill with terror ; the tear drops run o'er ; 
Sure, they are hearing a wolf at their door ; 
Grandpa ! oh ! grandpa ! tell them no more. 

For when stories are over, and little pra3'ers said. 
And the tired little darlings are nestled in bed, 
The same frightful visions ma}^ vex each fair head. 

Gazing, I see that the picture is ours, 
Hidden away with the past and its flowers, 
A treasure untold, for life's darker hours. 



LUCY liOGERS HILL CROSS. 4^3 

SECOND SCENE. 

Now from the scene lifts the curtain once more ; 
Bo^-hood and school-daj's at college are o'er, 
Roger is pushing his boat fnmi the shore. 

'Tis no regatta, no holida}- strife, 

Koger is oti" for the voyage of life ; 

Can it be that such skies with tempests are rife? 

Father with warnings, mother with tears, 
Point out the perils that come with the years ; 
lloger, oh ! Roger, give heed to their fears. 

Long ago, Roger, the Holy Book said, 
''Look not at all when the wine cup is red. 
Within it a serpent is hiding its head." 

Heed not the "Siren's" voice ; shun her bright isle ; 
There's a charm in her voice, but there's death in her smile ; 
Many a heart she of old did beguile. 

Learn of Ulj'sses, who, chained to the mast, 
Deafened his crew, till her bright bovvers were passed, 
Lest to ship and to crew the voyage were the last. 

Far o'er the waters, so bright in the sun, 
Glided the little bark bearing him on ; 
Blow gently winds ! till the haven is won. 

THIRD SCENE. 

Hark I on the waves of the sweet summer air. 
Rings out a "Wedding Bell," mellow and fair, 
And beauty and fragrance are everywhere. 

Fair as a vision of morning appears 
Bridal robed Jenny, in spite of her tears, 
And Harry the playmate of earlier years. 

Now, before Heaven, still pledge they anew 
Love and devotion life's long journey through, 
For Jenny is trusting and Harry is true. 

Like a bright beacon through tempest and night, 
iShines a new hearth-stone with heart-cheering light ; 
For love is a guest, and the future is bright. 



484 FOETS OF NEW IIAMFSHIBE. 



iWarg im. I^otinson, 



Mrs. Robinson, the second daughter of George E. Mudd, of Wolfehorough, is a 
native of that town. In 1860 she graduated from the State Normal Scliool in Salem. 
Mass., having the part of class poet, and contributing tvro hymns for the occasion. 
In 1863 she turnislied by invitation a poem for the Triennial Convention of thf 
Alumni of that Institution. For about seven years she was a teacher in Kimball 
Union Academy. In 1872 she married Thomas Robinson, ot" Salisbury, Eng- 
land, who is now a professor in Howard University, Washington, D. C. 



THE OLD CLOCK. 

Merril}', merrily, how it ticks ! 

The dear old clock by the wall ; 
Keeping time in musical chime, 

As the sunbeams rise and fall. ^ 

Mournfull}', mournfully, how it ticks ! 

As the hush of the night comes on ; 
Keeping time, with holier chime. 

To the tread of the moments gone. 

Warningly, warningl}-, how it ticks ! 

In the ear from day to day ; 
Keeping time in solemn chime, 

'Tis ticking our lives away. 



MAY 22, 1882. 

Ring loud the gold and silver bells, 

This sunny day of May, 
'Twas one and one that made but one 

Ten years ago to-da}' ! 

Bring roses red and roses white 

And pansies rich and gay, 
To make our home with gladness bright. 

This sunny day of May ! 

'Tis Love shall make our home most briglit, 
And Love shall be Queen of May ; 

'Tis only Love gives Life and Light 
On this our wedding day. 

Let's make a cord both true and strong 

To bind forever and aye, 
And be to each other Light and Song, 

From this our wedding day. 



MAEY M. JiOBINSON. 485 

THE SONG .OF LIFE. 

^^'llat song have 1 played on the harp-strings of life 

Tlirougli all this gone cycle of years, — 
Of years made of days, of days made of hours, 

And hours made of sunshine and tears? 

In childhood, a prattle as meny and wild 

As the bobolink's summer-time la}- ; 
In youth 'twas a trill that rose at each smile, 

And fell as the smile died away. 

And now what song from the harp-strings of life 

Through the still air tremblingl\' rings? 
Ay, trembling it comes ; — God kuoweth the touch 

That pla3-eth the silver strings. 

Thus do I question, alone, and unheard 

Except by the All-hearing Ear ; 
While the free, bounding air comes back to my lips, 

And a sigh's the response that I hear. 

But I know that hereafter when the seal shall come, 

And knowledge and truth shall be given, 
The song I shall hear, with discord nnblent, 

Mid the harmon}- perfect of Heaven. 



A RETROSPECT. 

O don't you remember our home. Sister, 

Our home far down in the dell 
Where the violets blossomed in spring-time, 

By the dear old meadow well ? 

And don't you remember the orchard, too, 

And the plum-trees standing by. 
The pinks and the daisies and currants so red. 

And the creeper clambering nigh ? 

And don't you remember the wood, Sister, 
Where the beech and the maples grew, 

And the spruce and the pine gave forth a sigh 
As the night-winds swept them through ? 

And the old grey rock where we used to play 

And imagine age was old, 
When life seemed all as a morning dream, 

A,nd sorrow a tale that is told? 



486 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

And the golden corn when autumn came ; 

How it filled the chambers wide ! 
• And the old-fiishioned loom that long had sat 
B}' the well-worn stair-way side? 

And the old wooden gate that for many a 3-ear 
Had creaked ow its weariless hinge ; • 

And the willow that stood with its far-reaching hands 
And its garb of tassels and fringe ? 

The fair-haired boy you remember still, 

And our sad and last good-bye 
When the shadows of night had fallen low. 

And the spring was drawing nigh. 

How he calmlj' passed to his silent rest 

And returned to us no more ; 
Still brightly shone the sun in the dell, 

And as bright on the cottage floor. — 

But adieu to the cot, the gate and the tree, 

To the loved now gone from our sight ; 
For the picture goes b}' like a gleam in the sk}-, 
And the sober To-da}' comes on while we say 
"Farewell" to this vision of lio;ht. 



Mrs. Senter, a rtaugliter of Rev. John Adams, was born at Great Falls, Sept. 1, 
1834. She was educated at New Haven, Ct., and at Northfield. She married E. L. 
Senter, an extensive farmer and trader. They reside at their beautiful country 
seat in Greenland. The poems of her brother, Enoch G. Adams, are found in this 
volume. 



ARE THERE NO MEMORIES? 

Are there no memories in thy mind. 
Like fragrance of sweet flowers, 

Borne to thee by some gentle wind. 
At twilight's peaceful hours ? 

Are there no memories like the light 

That beautifies the west. 
And keeps afar the shades of night 

That come th}' lif^ to bless ? 

Are there no memories, hidden deep, 

That all th}' life control, 
And, like a watch-fire, ever keep 

And purify the soul ? 



MAET A. A. SEXTER. 4.S7 

Are there no memories dearer far 

Than aught of earth to thee, 
That, like the faithful polar star, 
Will guide thee o'er life's sea? 

Are there no memories like the chime 

Of music to thine ear, 
That come to thee from time to time, 

Thy loneliness to cheer? 

Are there no memories, tell me friend, 

That never will decay. 
Not even when this life shall end, 

And thou hast passed away ? 

And if to memory must be brought 

All that we sa}- and do, 
Oh ! may we watch that there be naught 

But what is good and true. 



HOPING IN VAIN. 

Know'st what it is to watch and wait, 
And see each fond hope die, — 

As some lone watcher by the sea 
Beholds each sail go by? 

Or as a wanderer returns 

Unto his native shore. 
And finds the lov'd ones that he left 

Can greet him never more ? 

Or as when one who long has watched 

Above the couch of pain, 
Thinking at last the loved one sleeps, 

Finds he'll not wake again ? 

Or as a traveller at night 

Goes on without delay, 
Thinking at last he's almost home. 

Finds still he's far away? 

Or as when one who's labored long 
Some honored place to gain 

Finds that his life, and labor too. 
Have both alike been vain? 

And so it is with things of earth, — 

They glitter to decoy. 
And none of all its pleasures e'er 

Can give us lasting joy. 



488 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 



iHattie IE. Smiti). 



Mrs. Smith is a native of Concord, a daughter of John N. Pierson. When she 
WM8 ten years of ajce the family removed to Coviuston, Ky., where she received a 
portion of her education at the "school of Prof. A. T Goodhue, a cousin of her tath- ' 
er. In 1S5.5 her fatlier removeil to Minnesota, and settled on a farm near Ottawa. 
She remained in Kentucky, teaching, until the autumn of 18.57, when she also went 
to Minnesota. In 1859 she was married to Mr. Edson R. Smith of Le Sueur, in that 
State. 



HOPE ON ! HOPE EVER ! 

Why weep in Avoe ! and seem to be 

Of grief and sorrow fond, 
Nor try to pierce tlie darlvling clouds, 

To catcli a glimpse be^'ond ? 
But just above those sorrow clouds, 

The golden sunbeams stay ; 
Then wh}^ not mount on wings of faith, 

And bid them round thee jola}- ? 

Oh, is it right to fold thy hands 

In mute and calm despair. 
To sit thee down in idleness. 

And brood on naught but care? 
Oh no ! our mission is designed 

A brother's lot to cheer ; 
His griefs to soothe, his wounds to bind, 

While on our journey here. 

Then grieve not, friend, when troubles come. 

Nor fear to sorrow meet ; 
But look to God, and humbl}' bow 

In resignation sweet. 
Thine eye is not the onlj' one 

That's bathed in sorrow's tear ; 
Some other heart in grief is bowed. 

Which thou might help to cheer. 

Go, find that heart less blest than thine. 

And pour within his ear 
Sweet words of peace, and comfort too, 

With sympathizing cheer. 
Then shalt thou find a happiness 

Around th}' being thrown ; 
The peace diffused in others' hearts 

Shall make more blest thine own. 



GEOBQE GOBDOX BYROX DE WOLFE. 489 

— — — \ 

Ccorge Portion ISgroa 33e 2i2aolfe. 

This poet was born in Digby, Nova Scotia, February 15, 1835. His parents, wlicn 
he \va^^ about seven years cilil. removed to St. John, New Brunswick, where he liv- 
ed until aliout twenty years of ajie, when lie left his father's home, and e.ame to the 
Uyited States, and ('iin"iniei\<'eil the work which he followed until liis death, namely, 
travelliufjf from state to state, from town to town, writinir ver.~es on peojile, jilaccs, 
and j)oi)Ular events. He was married in 1800 to >Iiss Liiza Hargrove, of liradfonl, 
Torksliire, EuL'land. They came to reside in Nashua, where lie died Jan. i'i, ]S7;J. 
From the rapidity with which he wrote he was called the "Steam-Machine Poet." 
In later years he was known as the "Wandering Poet of New Hampshire." 



LOUISA'S GRAVE. 

Never Nature did look sweeter ; 

She has donned her choice arra}' ; 
Every streamlet rings its metre, 

Bidding welcome to the Ma\'. 
Beauty, thinking naught excels thee, 

How thy mail}' gems I crave ! 
In th}' midst a marble tells me 

That I'm at "Louisa's grave !" 

When she left this land where flowers. 

Though the3''re beautiful, must fade, 
"What her ^^ears, her days or hours. 

Not the little marble said. 
Though it smiled on May-time's lustre, - 

Stood erect like chieftain brave, — 
All the language it could muster 

Were the words — "Louisa's Grave !" 

But the charms did round it dally ; 

Every streamlet passing by, 
Every floweret in the valley, • 

Every sun-ray in the sky, — 
All my e^'es were then admiring, — 

To my quest this answer gave, 
"She's no home on eai'th desiring; 

This is not 'Louisa's Grave !' " 

Then I thought of Ilim above us, 

Monarc'ii of both land and sea. 
He who doth protect and love us, 

Moulder of Eternit\- ! 
'Twas a world the Lord of Glory 

Died on Calvary to save. 
Well I understood the story, — 

"This is not 'Louisa's Grave !' " 



490 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIEE. 

LINES. 

Look at 3"on moon, my ladylove, 

With sparkling lustre beam, 
Behold ! it sends a ray of light 

To beautify the stream. 
The waters glisten brighter far 

Than silver from Peru ; 
The trees lift up their noble heads 

To sup the gentle dew. 

Oh, lady, 'neath that satellite 

How man}' lovers stroll ! 
How swiftl}' pass their golden hours ! 

How fast the minutes roll ! 
Alas ! that even's hours should glide 

As if on angels' wings, 
When lovers hold their sweet converse, 

Nor envy thrones of kings ! 

Ah, lad}', little dost thou think 

How, 'neath that bright moon's beam, 
I've often sat and thought of thee, 

Then laid me down to dream. 
Then didst thou creep up to m}' side. 

And whisper in my ear 
Bright tales of love and happiness, — 

Oh ! joyous 'twere to hear ! 

But when I woke, thou wast not there ; 

The ground with dew was damp, 
And brightly in the azure sky 

Shone night's bespreading lamp. 
Oh, lad}', thou art near me now ! 

'Tis no delusive dream ! 
And we ma}' tell our tales of love 

Beneath that planet's beam 1 



EuQUgJta (JToopcr Bristol. 

Mrs. Bristol, a daughter of the late Otis Cooper, was horn in Croydon, April 17, 
1835. Her education was ohtained, for the most part, at the common school. IIoi- 
musical and poetical ahility hecame evident in childhood. Her lli-st poem was 
composed at the age of eight, but none were published until after her fifteeutli 
year. At that time she commenced her vocation as teacher and followed that call- 
ing for several years. In 18G6 she married Louis Bristol, a lawyer from New 
Haven, Coan., then residing near Carbondale, 111. In 18fi8, the third year of her 
residence in Illinois, her first volume of poems was published in Boston. From 
childhood to the present time ]Mrs. Bristol's life has been chantcteiized by constant 
effort and achievement. While dischai-ging the responsibilities of private life, she 



AUGUSTA COOPEB BRISTOL. 401 

yet labors assiduously for social progress tlirough the agency of the pen and Ihe 
platform. Some of lier pliilosophic and scientilic lectures have been translated 
an(l published in foreign countvies, and it is doulitful if the pressing ijueslions of 
human progress in m hicli slie has of late years been actively engaged, will ever 
permit her to resume again, in any considerable ilegree, the vocation of a poet. She 
resides at Vincland, X. J. 



THE HIGHER LIFE. 

Within our lives of conscious care, 
There lies another, fair and sweet ; 

All oracious sanctities are there, 
And trust, and consecrations mete ; 

A heaven that lieth not apart, 

A spirit world within the heart. 

And yet we grope with veiled ej'es 
For that whicli lielli near at hand, 

And lift the voice with prayerful cries, 
Through darkness, to an unknown land, 

While close beside us runs the way 

That broadens to divinest day. 

I looked upon the summer world, 
I heard the gladness of her rills, 

I saw her sunset banners fiu'led 
Upon the shoulders of the hills. 

And, looking, in m}' conscious heart 

I said, "God dwelleth not apart." 

If, in the ancient days, his feet 

Pressed fragrance IVom a garden walk, 

And our frail mother heaid his sweet 
And gracious ministry of talk, 

If she e'er saw his face divine, 

1 hold the privilege as mine. 

And yet my eyes are shadowed quite ; 

80 darkened, that I cannot see 
To read the wondrous law aright 

That draws Him to humanity. 
If I can make an Eden place. 
Perchance he will reveal his face. 

A place of blossoms, perfect, fair. 
With emerald arches reaching wide ; 

No common bloom shall o[)en there, 
But heavenly beaut}- shall abide : 

He will return to warn and bless, 

Drawn by the law of perfectness. 



4<»2 POETS OF NEW HAMP8HIBE. 

And then from morn till eve I sought 
For shrub and blossom, rich and rare ; 

From mora till eve I patient wrought 
To make my garden faultless fair : 

The common flower I did uproot, 

And crushed it with a careless foot. 

And soon it grew a wondrous place 
Of strange and supreme loveliness, 

Where fringe-tree i, with a m3'stic grace, 
Shook in their airy vapor dress. 

And the magnolia's waxen bloom 

Through glossy thickets breathed perfume. 

And near the fountain's circling line. 
The rich rose spread her leaves apart, 

And dropt her bosom's amber wine 
Into the lily's open heart ; 

And the azalea's pink and snow 

Gave the green light a sunset glow. 

But all in vain the thicket's shade, 

The fount, and groves of blooming flame, 

For he whose presence I essa3'ed 

With yearnings deep — he never came : 

In vain I walked that perfect spot, 

For if he came, I knew it not. 

Then in a frantic ecstasy 

That would not be o'erborne, I cried, 
"I cannot win the heavens to me. 

Though all perfection here abide ; 
And since I cannot reach so high, 
I will my own heart satisfy'." 

"The little field-flower shall find grace 
Within my 'sight; — I will not pass 

The meadow blossom, but give place 
To conmion blooms of common grass : 

I cannot draw the Lord above ; 

I'll make a place for human love." 

And in the gladness of the thought, 

1 sought the azure violet. 
And buttercups and daisies brought, 

And in my garden border set 
The crow-foot and the gentian too. 
And forest harebell, softly blue. 



AUGUSTA COOrEIi BBISTOL. 49; 



When lo ! A sudden glory fell 

Around nie, touching all with grace ; 

For love with mj'stic charm and spell, 
Had found me working at ni}- place, 

And gave to me tlie magic key 

That ope'd the higher life for me. 

Then from xt\y vision fled away 

The darkening shadows, and I saw 

The rose-tree and the thistle spray 
Evolving b}- divinest law ; 

Divinest life and essence ran 

From atom dust to conscious man. 

One law of life was everywhere. 

From starry sphere to blossom seed ; 

It moved the sea ; it filled the air 
With vital breath ; and I could read 

Eteriial scripture on the stone, 

And I no longer walked alone. 



THE PYXID ANTHER A. 

Sweet child of April ! I have found thy place 
Of deep retirement. Where the low swamp ferns 
Curl upward from their sheaths, and lichens creep 
Upon the fallen branch, and mosses dank 
Deo[)en and brigliten ; where the ardent sun 
Doth enter with restrained and chastened beam, 
And the light cadence of the blue-bird's song 
Doth ftilter in tlie cedar — there the spring. 
In quietude, hath wrought the sweet surprise 
And marvel of thy unobtrusive bloom. 

Most perfect symbol of my purest thought, — 
A thought so close and warm '^\Mthin my heart. 
No words can shape its secret, and no prayer 
Can breathe its sacredness, — be thou my type. 
And breathe to one who wanders here at dawn 
The deep devotion which, transcending speech. 
Lights all the folded silence of my heart, 
As thy sweet beauty doth the shallow here. 

So let thy clusters brighten, star on star 
Of pink and white, about his lingering feet, 
Till dreaming and enchanted, there will pass 
Into his life, the story that my soul 



494 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Hath given thee. So shall his will be stirred 

To purest purpose and divinest deed, 

And every hour be touched with grace and light. 



SONG OF CHILDHOOD. 

The morning, the morning, the beautiful morning ! 

It breaketh in waves of gold ! 
And the mountains that Hfted their foreheads in scorning, 

With frownings terrific and bold, 
Are sliining at last through an amber adorning 

Of mantle, and ripple, and fold. 

happy bee, linger with me in the clover ! 
For da}- is only begun : 

Just wait till the bluebell unclaspoth her cover, 

And learn how the secret is done : 
There's time both for labor and play, little rover, 

'Tis long to the setting of sun. 

1 laugh, pretty rose, for I think it is funu}' 

That such a sweet bud of May 
Will neither reveal, for the love nor the money, 

The wisdom it foldeth away ; 
But you'll open your heart to me, down to its honey. 

Before it is noon of the da}-. 

You lock up 3-our riddle and will not confess it. 

Though buttercups drop 3-0U gold. 
■]t may be the gay bobolink will express it ; — 

He sings what has never been told ; 
He may tangle his song, but I think I shall guess it 

Before the morning is old. 

O dark ribbon river ! O low-singing river ! 

I'll run with 3'ou to the sea ; 
For you have a mystery, too, to deliver ; 

I wonder what it can be ! 
The dew-dropping ferns on the marge are a-quiver 

With longing to tell it to me. 

You linger too long, pretty stream, by the willow, 

You loiter hy mead and lea ; 
There's a shell with a purple lip down by the billow, 

All filled with a murmur for me : 
Or ever I lie down to sleep on my pillow, 

I'll learn that song of the sea. 



AUGUSTA COOFEIi BBISTOL. 4U5 

THE WEB OF LIFE. 

1 was weaiy, more than weaiy on a sultry summer morning, 
As I filled life's empty shuttle with duty's iron thread ; 

"Though the sum of my achievement all the world should hokl 
in scorning, 
If the over-soul approveth, I am content," I said. 

"If the over and the under and the inner-soul approveth, 
The one encircling unity — the central all-in-all, 

I will sing, despite m}' faintness, for the sake of him who loveth 
The frail things and the tender, the weak things and the small." 

The golden thread of human love, full well had it been proven ; 

1 never have forgotten quite the rainbows that it made ; 
But alas for all the failure of the web when it was woven ! 

'ilie shame of noting da}' by day the glowing colors fade. 

How m^' spirit flamed within me ! In a grand and frantic fashion, 
1 tore the mesh, and trampled on the false!}' shining thread : 

Till I rose serene and patient from the asiies of my passion, 
And flung the heavy shuttle of realit}' instead. 

I trifled not with fanc}', and I dallied not for beauty, 

And faint as whispering echoes the voice of pleasure rang : 

For me, 1 only cared to hear the clarion of duty. 

And work my rythmic treadles to the trumpet song she sang. 

On that sultr}' summer morning something held me in its keeping, 
For a stupor came upon me, and I fancy that I slept ; 

But the web of life went onward in the dreaming and the sleeping. 
And my weak hands at the shuttle theirrythmic movement kept. 

And 1 thought celestial voices murmured down the ether spaces ; 

And angel wings came noiselessly' and stirred the summer air; 
And behind a cloud of glory were two loving spirit faces ; 

And their talk with one another was a music sweet and rare. 

-'Slie endureth and is faithful" — low and tenderl}' i\\ey spake it — 
"She endureth and is patient and she maketh no complaint ; 

She knoweth not the tapestry she weaveth ; let us take it. 
And unfold it to her vision, for her spirit grovveth laint." 

"She [)rayeth not for pit}-, but her heart dclighteth ever 
In the kindly deed of mere}' and the loving sacrifice ; 

Then let us gather up the sombre wob of her endeavor, 
And in the true celestial light, unfold it to her eyes." 

Then soft they floated downward, and they spread before my 
vision 
The web that I had woven, jet had never turned to see ; 



496 POETS OF NEW IIAMFSHIPE. 

O the harpers and the seraphim that walk the field elysian 
That moment must have shouted a song of praise for me ! 

A universe alone could voice my triumph and my gladness ! 

For lo ! the work ni}- hand had wrought in heaviness and cohl 
Was not a sombre tracery upon a ground of sadness, 

But beds of sweetest bloom embbssed upon a ground of gold. 

And there were living roses, and their glowing censers swinging 
AVere filled with hone3'-wine embalming all the summer air ; 

And birds with burnished plumage were among the blossoms 
singing. 
And butterflies on wings of golden flame were rocking there. 

Then suddenly I wakened with the rapture and the wonder ; 

And life was glor}' ! I had read the riddle of its task ! 
For the gold of love eternal is around, above, and under. 

And who or what is di(ty, but love's angel in a mask? 



WHAT THE ROSES SAID. 

This is what the roses said. 
One transcendent summer morning. 
When the light clouds overhead. 
Heedless of my mortal scorning, 
Drank the rays of golden red ; 
When the wild bird's solemn trill, 
AVhere the river runneth still. 
Filled me with a hungry dread ; 
AVlien my life no truth could render 
For the world's mistaken splendor, 
When I thought my heart was dead, 
This is what the roses said. 

"Crimson leaf and pollen gold, 

Born of darkness and the mould. 

Ever}- perfect leaf and fruitage 

Rises from a grave-like rootage : 

And the strong wild winds thiit rock us, 

And the tempest storms that shock us, 

And the snows upon the lea, — 

All are certain guaranty 

Of perfection 3'et to be ; 

Of a beauty more complete 

For the shadow at its feet ; 

Greener strength and fairer bloom. 

Sweeter breathings of perfume, 



LAUBA GARLAND CARB. 497 



Deep hearts filled with richer balm, 
May days more divine]}- calm, 
Fairer reachings into light. 
Firmer growth and nobler height ; 
Light and i)eace from shade and strife 
Is the pai'adox of life ; 
Loving law and tender spell 
In the darkness worketh well." 

This was what the roses said. 
Shaming all my mortal scorning, 
That transcendent snmmer morning, 
When I thought my heart was dead. 



Haura Sarlantr iE'atr. 

]Mrs. Carr is a daughter of WilliaiTi Garland, late of Barnstead. She was born 
in that town June 27, 1835. Slie is tlie wife of Mr. X. G. Carr of Concord, where 
they have resided the past twenty-flve jears. Writing: with her has been merely a 
<liversion from the duties of a very busy life. Her poetry is read with delifrht aa 
it appears from time to time in various newspapers and magazines. Slie linds her 
inspiration much in the beauties of nature. Her numbers are harmonious, and 
the pictures she paints in imagination are true to life and most pleasing. IMrs. Carr 
contemplates the publication of a volume of her poems at an early day iu the future. 



IN THE WOODS. 

Here on the soft, brown leaves I lie, 
Deep in the woodland shade ; 

No bit of landscape meets ni}- ej'e. 

Nor one blue gleam from sea or sky, 
Nor glimpse of sunlit glade ; 

Eough tree trunks, towering everywhere, 

Hold this broad canopy in air. 

Brown branches spread rare pencillings, 

Keeping themselves aloof; 
And each small leaf that lightly swings 
Its own bright bit of beauty brings 

To form the dainty roof; 
And look wliichever side I may. 
The silent arches stretch away. 

No birds ! no wind ! Uncertain sounds 

Come faintly from afar ; 
I fancy when we leave earth's bounds. 
To walk no more its well-known rounds, 

That thus, without a jar, 
The murmurs from this old, loved land 
Will echo on the heavenly strand. 



498 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 



How near God is ! I seem to lie 

Within his courts to-day ; 
No great wliite throne, exalted high, 
No glittering pageant, passing b}', 

To fill me with dismay ; 
He walks in quiet through the land, 
Touching his works with loving hand. 

This tiny vine close at ray feet, 

These modest tufts of moss 
Are moulded into forms as neat. 
Finished in beaut}' as complete 

As the tall trees that toss 
Their branches in the summer gale, 
And stretch long shadows o'er the vale. 

spirit of the woodland shade, 
You give me joy to-da}^ ! 

Your beauties all m}- soul invade ; 
Your quiet on my heart is laid ; 

Oh, live with me, I pra}"^ ! 
Let me still feel your soothings when 

1 tread the jarring walks of men. 



WHAT A PITY! 

They stand beside the garden gate, 
Half hidden in syringa snow ; 
His voice comes up — a steady flow 
Of softened bass ; hers sweet and low, 
With tender trills, like gay spring birds, 
Needing no help from prosy words 

Her heart's glad tumult to relate. 

The sun has sunk behind the trees, 
And up across the western sk}' 
Its crimson streamers, flaming high 
Where piles of laz}- cloudlets lie. 
Have set the fluflfy mass on fire. 
Drawing all ej'es up to admire ; 

But not one gleam this couple sees. 

The swallows, leaving shade behind, 
Soar up and up till each fair breast 
Grows rudd}' from the fiery west ; 
There, curving, sail in splendor drest ; 



LAUBA GABLAND CABR. 499 

Then, swooping low in graceful swings, 
We almost feel their fanning wings. 
These young folks look not. Are they blind? 

Her small white kitten, full of play, 

Climbs up and pushes 'neath her hand, 

Accustomed petting to demand ; 

Half wond'ring at the missed caress. 

Puss tangles one long, silken tress, 

riays at the fringes of her dress — 
Winning no look — then bounds away. 

The shadows rise — 'tis getting late — 

And meet, half wa}', the falling light 

The stars let down to cheer the night ; 

All things haA'e donned a dusk}' hue ; 

The air is chilled with falling dew ; 

Still the}- talk on. It must be true ; 
They're blind — those people at the gate ! 



THE WOOD THRUSH. 

When, in the pleasant summer days, 

I walk through quiet, leafy ways, 

From out the woodland, sweet and clear, 

A wild bird's song comes to ni}- ear ; 

Flute-like and liquid in its tone, 

It has a cadence all its own ; 

And yet, so plaintive is the strain, 

A loneliness, akin to pain. 

Steals o'er the heart, and fancy brings 

Pictures of solitary things : 

Of human hearts, estranged and lone. 

Of loves, that live and die unknown. 

Of earnest pra3ers, pleading to heaven 

Tliat sin stained souls may be forgiven, 

Of lonely isles in distant seas, 

Of waveless lakes 'mong forest trees. 

Of pale faced nuns and convent bells. 

And hooded monks in cloistered cells. 

O little bird, does sad unrest 

Send those wild throbbings I'rom your breast ? 

Do sun and stream and woodland bower 

Ne'er cheer you with their magic power? 

Does no glad trill or cheerful note 

Stir the soft plumage of your throat? 



r,()(> POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIJIE. 



I know you mate and build, each 3'ear, 
Yoiu' tin}' nest, and fledglings rear. 
You gather food and drink each da}'. 
And pass tlie time in true bird wa}' ; 
lint never tluis you seem to me, — • 
Nauglit but a sail, lone bird I see. 



A GARDEN. 

Pansies ! O Pansies ! you stand in a row, 
Facing one way as if daring a (be ; 
Wide bordered caps 'round your droll faces grow. 
Was it a bee or bird? Pray let me know 
What angered 3'ou so ! 

ITa, gladioles ! your l)anners are gay. 
Flung on the breezes in scarlet array. 
Humming-birds revel among 3-ou all da}', 
Coming and going in glad, hapiw wny. 
Winged blosso)us are they. 

Bachelor's-buttons ! you're all bending over, 
Linking your buds with the fragrant sweet-clover. 
Love-in-a-mist, are you seeking to cover 
Your fair retreat from each marigold lover? 
Ah, (ji)ld can discover ! 

Salvia blooms, you are llames to the eye, 
liising and ialling as winds flutter by, 
lirusliing tlie mallows that stand coyly nigh, 
Lifting their pink and white cups to the sky. 
Can you tell me why ? 

Petunia beds are a-flutter with wings 
Of butterflies, honey-bees, small flying tin'ngs ; 
C;u'uali()ns and daisies are tied ui) witii strings ; 
Verbenas! your [)urple miglit rival a king's. 
Yet to the ground clings ! 

Dahlias and holly-hocks, stately and tall. 
Flaunt their broad blooms where the cool shadows fall 
Sweet-peas and creepers are climbing the Avail, 
Scarlet-beans twine a bright line tlu'ougii them all. 
Oh, the tapestried liall ! 

Out in the fountain the bright waters leap ; 
In on the breezes the low murmurs creep ; 
Where are the birds, that so silent they keep? 
Heliotrope odors my dull senses steep. 
Is daylight asleep ? 



LAUIiA GARLAND CAEB. 501 



AN APRIL NIGHT. 

With a stead}' rliytlimic beat, 

Like a thousand fairy leet, 
I'ranc'in^, dancing, all in time upon the roof, 

Through Ihe livelong April night, 

While tiie stars were out of sight. 
Fell the rain-drops, keeping slumbers all aloof. 

I could hear the jolly rout, 

As they rushed adown the spout, 
Then made off with noisy splutter to the drain, 

While no moment, overiiead, 

Ceased that tinkling, airy tread. 
In the coming" and the going of the rain. 

With what zest the meny crew 

Drummed a rollicking tattoo 
On the old tin jian the boys had left in play ; 

Striving ench, with tiny might. 

To dispel the gloom of night, 
Driving visions of the midnight far away. 

Once a seeming tearful sob 

Set my pulses all a-throb, 
And I stared, with dim forebodings, through the room ; 
. But a gust of misty laughter 

Breaking up the sound just after. 
Bore away the dismal fancy none too soon. 

B}' and b}' the measured flow, 

Growing softer, sinking slow. 
Lulled and soothed the weary tumult in my })rain ; 

Till, half waking, half asleep, 

Dream-like scenes around me creep. 
Ever changing, ever blending with the rain : — 

Mossy banks where violets grow — 

I had roamed there long ago ; — 
I^osky dells where swelling May-buds shun the sight, 

llolding close, in leafy cells. 

Rosy tints and woodsy smelU, 
Till the gentle hands that love them bring the light ; 

Spreading meadows, green and low, 

Where the yellow cowsli[)S grow ; 
Racing brooks that babble, bal)ble as the}' glide, 

Sending little jets of sprny, 

In their own delightful wny, 
Over evervthing that dal)liles in their tide. 



502 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 



Now the morn comes creeping in, 

And the daily cares begin, 
"While the baker's bells are jangling by the door : 

Clouds and fancies fade away 

In the steady glare of da}^ 
And the prosy world moves onward as before. 



A MOUNTAIN PASTURE. . 

We rode for miles where pleasant farms 
In rumpled greenness bound the waj' ; 

Where, in October's thousand charms, 
The many-tinted woodlands la^-. 

Where orchard slopes were carpeted 
With shining ronnds of red and gold, 

And shaking branches overhead 

The gleaner's hidden presence told ; 

Where pumpkins gleamed amid the corn 
That stood at half-mast in the fields. 

And turkeys sought, with looks forlorn, 
The hopping tribes that autumn yields. 

Where loops of apples hung to dr}'. 

Or browned themselves on snowy spreads, 

And tips}' squashes leaned awrj', 

In mottled heaps 'neath sunny sheds. 

And then the road gi'ew steep apace, 
AVe zig-zagged up the ledgy height. 

While backward looks were turned to trace 
The widening view, in shifting light. 

The pines gave out a balmy smell, 

And spicy hints of frost-nipped ferns, 

From ever}' bushy, wayside dell, 
Came wafting up at sudden turns. 

The path grew rougher all the time ; 

We left the hubbl}' public way. 
Up pasture rocks and steeps to climb, 

Till all the land beneath us lay ; 

Green fields with patches placed askew, 
Crossed off b}' man}' a random wall, 

With strips of forest rambling through. 
And flitting shadows over all ; 



LAUBA GABLAND CABB. 503 



Small ponds in sheltered vales reposed, 

Streams curved awaj' through shadows dim, 

And where the eastern vision closed. 
The ocean showed a slender rim. 

A cow-bell clangdd close at hand, 

A blue jay scolded just below, 
And lazily, across the laud, 

Went sailing b^' a cawing crow. 

The horses stood, with manes outshook, 

To follow us with startled ej-es ; 
With horned heads lifted high to look, 

The cattle gazed in mild surprise. 

The spangled junipers outspread, 

Turning our eager steps aside ; 
And loose stones tilted 'neath our tread, 

While romping winds our arts defied. 

The district schools, as we came down, 

Were dining in the open air, 
Like basket picnickers from town. 

Making bright pictures unaware. 



THE WAY TO GRANDPA'S. 

A well known path across the field. 

Round barley lot and through the corn, 

Here showing clearly, there concealed 
B}' drooping grass, at dewy morn ! 

The older people walked straight through. 

But many curves our 3'oung feet knew ! 

Out through the barn for just one glance 
At swallows flitting to and fro. 

At queer black heads, with looks askance, 
From out mud nests at us below, 

For just one tumble on the haj'. 

Then off, through back-doors, on our way ! 

Down b}' the stone-heap, framed around 
With raspb'ry bushes young and old, 

Just there, beneath a rock, we found 
A whole ant city in the mould ! 

'Twas but a step outside the way — 

We'd not been there for one whole day ! 



504 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 



Then over yonder by the ledge, 
The bhieb'ry bush that stood alone 

Seemed wooing us with offered pledge 
Of berries ripe and full}- grown ; 

And close beside, in grassj' rest, 

We found a tiny sparrow's nest. 

"We reached the stile — a pleasant place 
Beneath a spreading maple-tree — 

And there we tarried long to trace 
The waj'ward fliglit of bird and bee. 

Or watched the chipmonk rise and fall. 

Darting adown the pasture wall. 

The pasture bars — too wide and high 

For little fingers to undo — 
But many crevices were nigh 

Where little forms could sidle through. 
Be^'ond, the orchard, darklj- green, 
"While cat-tail flags grew rank between. 

The garden gate, — the garden gate ! 

Oh, we could never pass it by ! 
There hollyhocks grew tall and straight. 

And sweet red roses charmed the eye. 
There currant bushes, all aglow 
"With ripening fruit, were in a row. 

And just beyond the low stone wall — 
No sweeter music e'er Avas known — 

"We heard a brooklet's tinkling fall 
Along each moss-enveloped stone ; 

"We followed on, for well we knew 

Where fragrant beds of pep'mint grew ! 

The house was reached ! A-gleam with red 
The cherry-trees stood round the door ; 

And scolding robins, over head. 
Fluttered and revelled in the store ; 

While nois}- thumps from grandma's loom 

Came sounding from the open room. 

'Twas long ago — Oh, long ago — 

That we went bounding o'er the wa}- ! 

We have grown sober paced, and know 
Of manj- changes since that day ; 

But memory pictures all so plain, 

We seem to live it o'er again. 



LAUBA GABLAND CABB. 



505 



SHUT IN. 

From the upper shelf, as I just now fumbled 
'Mong the ancient books that it holds in trust, 

By a careiess move this old reader tumbled, 
With its leaves wide spread, and a puff of dust. 

And out from between its ax-How old pages 
Something went scattering over the floor. 

With a smell, I thought, like the "dust of ages," 
And a look like grass when summer is o'er. 

Oh, what did I see as I stooped to gather 
The crumbling leaves to their places again? 

Two gayest of girls, in the pleasant weather. 
Walking and talking in merriest strain ; 

Through the dark-green rowen our shade hats trailing, 
While the low-down sun blazed up from the west ;° 

A nj'ght-hawk, booming, above us was sailing. 
With a golden gleam on his speckled breast. 

We were talking of— what? Do you remember? 

No doubt 'twas the chatter of foolish girls 
Whose lives were as bright as the fair September, 

Whose hearts were as light as the leaf that twirls. 

With a graceful move you would oft bend over. 

As the willow dips to the river's strand. 
And I saw, each time, that a four-leafed clover 

Was plucked from its place by your dainty hand. 

"You're a witch," I cried, "or a trained magician ! 

Not once in an age comes one to my view 1" 
"Can it be," you said, "a defect of vision?" 

And bending down quickly, you picked up two. 

With the evening dews on our lengthening tresses, 
We slowly went home, while the air grew chill ; 

And the drabbly trail of our muslin dresses 

Through our happy hearts sent a troubled thrill. 

Did you think, as you pressed, in the lamp's dim shining, 
The velvet-green leaves, with a dreamy look, 

That your own fair face and that day's declining 
Would stay, like the clover, iu this old book? 



506 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 



IN THE ORCHARD. 

Robins, oh, hush ! Quit j'our tiresome chatter ! 

Why will you tell each domestic affair? 
Bobolinks, bobolinks ! What is the matter? 

Are you all crazed b}' this winey May air? 

Ho, dancing brook ! racing down to the meadow, 

Flashing your silver and calling to me, 
Rushing like childhood from sunshine to shadow, 

Wasting 3'our jewels and laughing in glee ! 

Blossoms white ! blossoms pink ! tossing and swinging, 
Flinging the daintiest fragrance around ! 

Oh, 3-ou bright blooms ! Are your fair}' bells ringing. 
Tolling out perfume instead of a sound ? 

Ilonej'-bees, bumble-bees, plunging all over 

Into the nectar! Oh, rapturous sight! 
Out from one's ravished sweet into another's, — 

Why don't you die of ecstatic delight I 

Clouds 'neath the sky, idly floating and floating. 
Pause overhead — Ah, I well can guess why — 

Each lovely tint of the apple-trees noting ; 

Don't seek to match them, 3'ou can't if you try. 

Reading the Good Book I learn of a heaven 

Golden and gem-decked, where good folks may stay- 

(If this is sin may the thought be forgiven) — 
Can it be fair as this orchard in May ? 



BY THE RIVER. 

A tree bends low, in humble grace, 

To proffer us a double seat ; 
And from its restful curve we trace 

The charms where wood and river meet. 

There's scarce a ripple on the stream. 
There's scarce a murmur at its brink ; 

Calmly above the white clouds dream, 
Clear, in its depths, the shadows sink. 

Now here, now there, a shiner darts, 
Breaking its surface into rings ; 

And, skimming low, a swallow parts 
The eleamino; briehtness with its wings. 



LAUBA GAB LAND CAER. 507 

Close to the bank the minnoM's glide 
Where the dark alders cast their shade ; 

Or, startled b}' our steps, the}' hide 
Within their rootlet ambuscade. 

Jock breaks the silence with a leap, 

And swims out in the cooling tide 
Like some black monster of the deep, 

Flinging off" jewels from each side. 

A many-shaded mass of green 

Slopes upward from the farther shore, 
To where, on highest bough, serene, 

A grave crow looks the landscape o'er. 

A sparrow trills. An unknown bird 

Sends a queer twisted strain along ; 
And from the quiet wood is heard 

A far-off veery's lonel}' song. 

Hark ! Was not that a hum-bird's whir ? 

There — there ! He's gone, the flitting sprite ! 
The lightest leaflets scarcel}' stir. 

Though brushed and fanned by bis swift flight. 

The earth is glad, the sky is calm. 

The flashing waters fair to see ; 
And yet, dear love, the day's' chief charm 

Is that I share its sweets with thee. 



LIGHT. 

I, said, one morn, "O earth, j-ou're dull and gra^- ! 
There is no beaut}' in yoxw snow and ice. 
Nor fanc}' frost work, though in quaint device. 

You're cold, oh, cold ! You chill me through to-day." 

Lo ! as I looked there came a gleam of light. 
Straight from the east. The icy fringes blazed ; 
Colors and flashes deepened as I gazed, 

Till naught but glory met my raptured sight. 

I said, one day, "O life, you're little worth — 
Made up of toil and care and blighted liope. 
With pain and sin and all their ills to cope. 

The da}' of death is better than of birth." 

Ev'n as I spoke Love put a hand in mine. 
And its dear presence drove all gloom away. 
As shadows flee before the dawn of day, 

And life became a heritage divine. 



508 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

OFF! 

Each winter sprite is in a fright, 
I heard them talliing in the night. 
Their voices thin piped droll}' in 
Through pauses in the March wind's din ; 
While soft and low the melting snow 
From cottage eaves drip dropped below. 

"PIo, elves and sprites that delve in snow and ice ! 
There's something creeping up the southern hills, 
Along the air ; I feel its melting thrills ; 

To sleep and death these lulling calls entice. 

Let us awa}' ! 

"I hear the sap low pulsing in the trees ; 

The rootlets stir uneas}' in the ground ; 

Sounds, low and restless, come from all around. 
And spring-like murmurs laden every breeze. 

Let us awa}' ! 

"The streams are turning in their wi'nter beds, 
_ Rending the sheets with which we tucked them in 
The woodpecker and all his noisy kin 
Drum up the bugs, with scarlet crested heads. 

Let us awa}' ! 

"These fickle people, who oft gave their praise 
To dainty marvels that our fingers wrought, 
Heed us no more. Their fancies all are bought 

By the soft nonsense of spring's coming fays. 

Let us away !" 

Then the low sound of winds around 

Grew loud and fierce. All words were drowned ; 

With dull refrain, against the pane. 

The melting snow was dashed like rain ; 

The windows clanged, the shutters banged. 

The shrieking clothes-reel whirled and whanged ; 

Then all was still, while clear and shrill 

New voices came the pause to fill. 

"AVe are ofi" for the frozen zone ! 
To a country that's all our own. 

Where the snow sparkles white 

'Neath the gay northern light, 
And the winds have a ;'ollicking tone ! 



LAUBA GABLAXD CARE. 509 



"In that beautiful region afar, 
Right under the famed polar star, 

Where the dull Esquimau 

Builds his queer hut of snow, 
We will laugh out our merry ha ! ha ! 

"We know where the eider ducks swim 
CloSe up to the world's upper brim, 

Where the whales spout and play 

In a wonderful wa}', 
And the icebergs sail stately and grim. 

"We'll dance on each glittering peak 
That echoes the sea-eagle's shriek ; 

And the huge polar bear 

We will seek in his lair 
And ride on his back for a freak. 

"Oh ho, like the wild birds we'll fly, 
Nor breathe out one whimpering sigh. 

In that land far away 

For a while we will stay. 
But we shall come back b}- and b}-." 

Again the sound of winds around 
Grew loud and fierce. Along the ground, 
With motions fleet, like dancing feet. 
There seemed a rushing through the street. 
Then all was still and calm until 
The rosy morn peeped o'er the hill. 



A LANE. 

CaA-erns of apple boughs, frescoed with bloom, 
Folding you close in a dainty perfume ; 
Half a score bobolinks, crazy as loons. 
Giving you scraps of a hundred glad tunes ; 
Orioles, rolling out tones of delight. 
Shaking the leaves as they flash through the white ; 
Cat-birds a-mocking from over the wall. 
Making the alders resound at each call ; 
Buzzing old bees that turn work into play, 
Canning up sweets for some dull winter day ; 
Soft, dripping waters the log trougli o'erflow, 
Dark'ning the mosses close crowded below ; 
Wondering cows, looking up as the}- drink, 



510 POETS OF NEW nAMPSHIBE. 

Plashing its brightness across the low brink ; 
Sweet growing things creeping up to the sight ; 
Fair, flying creatures too ga}' to alight ; 
Far-awa}' glints of a cowslip-flecked green, 
"When the boughs swa}', come like visions between. 
Winding and turning, 3'ou follow the lane, 
Flickering sunbeams a-falling like rain. 
Where are you wandering? Never you heed. 
When ways are pleasant, why ask where they lead ? 



Mrs. Wheeler, of PittsfleM, is a daughter of the late William Garland of Barn- 
stead. She is the wife of Dr. .John Wheeler. Her poetry, like that of her sister, 
Mrs. Laura Garland Carr, is of a high order and very beautiful. 



APPLE BLOOMS. 

A child went bounding through the rooms 

And left a door ajar, 
Through which a smell of apple blooms 

Came wafted from afar. 

A cabinet long locked from me, 

Within this soul of mine. 
Sprang open, without hand or key, 

At that sweet countersign ; 

And man}' a quaint memento there, 

With scraps of old delight, 
Forgotten songs and pictures rare, 

Surprised my inward sight. 

A bunch of violets, white and blue, 

A brook with grassj' brink. 
The sound of waters tangled through 

With notes of bobolink ; 

A shadow on the grass below, 

A blackbird's scream above ; 
Hope-bubbles, burst so long ago, 

And morning dreams of love. 

With curious ej-es I turned them o'er, 

Till others sought my room ; 
Then shut them all away once more 

Close-locked to apple bloom. 



MABY H. WHEELER. 511 



SATURDAY NIGHT. 

I sat at tny window and listened, 
At the close of a summer day, 

To the soothing strains of music 
In the church across the waj^ 

The solemn tones of the organ 
Came swelling upon the breeze, 

Then floated away into silence, 

Like the wind in the tops of the trees. 

Then a single voice rose softlj^. 

And its pleading was like a prayer. 

And my heart went forth to join it, 

As it throbbed through the evening air. 

Grandly the swelling voices 

Were blent in the chorus, and then 

A far-off w^hispering echo 
Repeated its soft "amen." 

It came like a benediction 

At the close of the summer da}-. 

And I thanked God for the music 
In the church across the way. 



A SERENADE. 

When the dim twilight with evening was blending, 

Wearih' sought I my dream-haunted bed, 
Hoping kind sleep, in the darkness descending, 

Softl}- might soothe the dull pain in ray head ; 
Was I but dozing, or had I been sleeping. 

When the soft prelude so sweetly was played? 
Under m^' w'indow, all silently creeping, 
Somebody sang me a sweet serenade : 
"All'is still, all is still, 
Whippoor^ill, whippoorwill 
* Sings to thee, sings to Ihee, sings to thee." 

Over the hill-tops the slow moon was creeping, 
While the pale stars twinkled on ever bright ; 

In at my window the woodbine was peeping, 

Shining with dew-drops — the gems of the night. 

Silently stood the old wind-attuned willow. 
Never a breeze bore its whispers along ; 



5 1 2 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Lying at ease on the rest-giving pillow 

I saw not the singer, I heard but the song : 
"Night is still, night is still, 
"Whippoorwill, whippoorwill 
Sings to thee, sings to thee, sings to thee." 

Quickly all fears and all phantoms of sorrow, 

All the vexations and cares of the day. 
All the forebodings that shadowed the morrow, 

Spread their dark pinions and floated awa}'. 
Thankful to Him whose kind love, never ending, 
Formed earth in beauty and gave eyes to see ; 
Tears of sweet gratitude, soft!}- descending. 
Answered the song one was singing to me : 
"Sleeping still? sleeping still? 
AVhippoorwill, whippoorwill 
Sings to thee, sings to thee, sings to thee." 



A PLEA. 

The}' tell us that our Granite State, 

AVith Climate cold and stern. 
Where sullen winter lingers late 

And hastens his return. 
Its stubborn and unfertile soil 

Witli rocks and stones replete, 
But half repaj's the farmer's toil, 

In crops of corn and wheat. 

The}' point us to the prairied west. 

Where rich, exhaustless lands 
Are with luxuriant verdure dressed, 

Untilled by toiling hands. 
The}' tell us of vast fields of grain 

That need but to be sown. 
And neck-high grasses on the plain, 

But waiting to be mown. 

And if the one aim of our days 

Were, with least work and care. 
The largest crops of grain to raise, 

'Twere well to hasten there ; 
To leave New England's stony lands, 

The fields our fathers blest. 
Our churches, schools and household bands. 

For prairies of the west. 



MABY H. WHEELEB. 513 

But industry and enterprise 

And self-denying toil, 
Contrivance, which man here applies 

In conquering the soil, 
Make conquest of far more than land 

In strengtli and manliness ; 
"While mountain landscapes, bold and grand, 

Th8 character impress. 

And in our winters, long and cold, 

That chain us half the year, 
Affection's warmer depths unfold, 

And home becomes more dear. 
Then let the west produce its grain. 

The boast of tongue and pen, 
The south its cotton and its cane, 

New Hampshire raises men. 



k 



MY GRANDMA'S LOOM. 

Coming from school by the summer path. 

Across the pasture ledge. 
And the clover field, in aftermath, 

Beyond the alder hedge, 
Froni the hill I heard the merry sound 

Of flails on the threshing floor. 
And running on, with a skip and bound. 

Was soon at grandpa's door. 
Away went my dinner-pail, with a jump 

I hurried across the room, 
And up the stairs to the rattle and thump 

Of grandma's busy loom. 

Back and forth the shuttle flew. 

And the woof was beaten in, 
And the figures on the fabric grew 

To the changing treadle's din. 
To right and left my grandma bent. 

And the shuttle straight she tlirew, 
Which seemed, as I looked with eyes intent. 

An easy thing to do. 
And I thought if I had but a loom of my own- 
. A play-loom that would go, 
In my play-house, I would weave alone 

A web all as white as snow. 



514 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

And then I had a loom of my own, 

A pla^'-loom all complete, 
And up and down the threads were thrown 

As I changed vay little feet. 
And oh, such a wondrous web there grew 

As was never seen before, 
With pictures of grain and grandpa, too. 

And the flails and the threshing-floOr, 
A bo}' and girl in a grove at play, 

A field and a flock of sheep ; 
And then I heard my grandma sa^'^, 

"Why, the child is fast asleep !" 

That was a dream but since 3'ears have flown, 

Again I think I can see 
That there was indeed a loom of my own. 

And weaving a web for me. 
M}' grandma sits at her loom no more. 

Her hands have long been still, 
And no sound comes from the threshing floor 

As I wander on the hill, 
But some passing breeze doth to-da^' unfold 

M}' web of life, to show 
This scene which was woven in threads of gold 

In the years so long ago. 



DIGGING FOR GOLD. 

I remember a story — perhaps it is old. 

But a story that's good may be often retold — 

Of a farmer who farmed in an old routine wa^', 

And was always repeating, "Oh, farming don't pay !" 

Now this farmer had listened to stories, once told. 
Of the finding of treasure and long buried gold. 
Till farming was irksome, and nothing w^ould do 
But he must be finding a pot of gold, too. 

And he soon got to poking and grubbing around 

Old wells and old ruins and holes in the ground ; 

So his fields were neglected there year after year. 

And the neighbors all said Farmer Tompkins was queer. 

But one morning he came from his chamber in glee, 
And sat down to breakfast as gay as could be, . 

And he said to his wife, "Well, the treasure is found ; 
I have onl}' to dig it up out of the ground." 



MARY H. WHEELEB. 5 If, 



b 



'■Where ! where?" cried his wife. "In the orchard, "said he ; 
'"I luvve dreamed it all out — it is under a tree, 
A l)ro\vn earthern pot tliat is mouldy and old. 
And tilled to the brim Avith red guineas of gold." 

They breakfasted lightly, nor longer delayed, 
But'rushed to the orchard with pickaxe and spade ; 
His wife called out briskly, "Now which is the tree?" 
He scratched his wise head — "Blest if 1 know," said he. 

"I thought I should know it," he hastened to say ; 
"We must dig till we fmd it ; there's no other way." 
But his wife was disheartened, for, little and big, 
There were two hundred trees under which they might dig. 

Then down went the pickaxe and up came the soil, 
"Save the roots," cried his wife, "or the trees you will spoil 
"Let them go," said the farmer, " 'tis little they bear," 
But as he dug deeper he gave them more care. 

From morning till evening he delved with a will. 
And the next setting sun found him digging there still ; 
And the neighbors who soon had got wind of the matter, 
Came watching around him with unwelcome clatter. 

And so week after week he kept heaping up mould. 
Till the trees were all circled, but no pot of gold ; 
Then the neighbors with jests and with jibes made it jolly, 
And the orchard— they called it "Old Tompkins' folly." 

Now the months rolled away and the spring came about, 
And the leaves and the blossoms were all coming out ; 
When the song of the robin was loud on the breeze. 
Then our I'armer's wife called him to look at his trees. 

Such a burden of bloom had ne'er gladdened his eye. 
Yet he turned from the view with a crestfallen sigh ; 
But the pink petals fell and the green a[)ples grew, 
Such a wonderful yield that the neighbors looked, too. 

By August our farmer so busy was found, 
rroi)ping fruit-laden branches that drooped to the ground, 
That his whim was forgotten — he never once thought 
To look for the treasure which lately he sought. 

But by and by, when the nice apples were sold, 
He remembered again how he dreamed of the gold ; 
And he said, "Though this tillage is wearisome toil, 
There is gold for the digging in most any soil." 



516 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

WAR-SONG OF KANCAMAGUS. 

(June, 1689.) 

At the old fort in Pennacook 

The Indian sachems met, 
An insult liad been given 

Whicli no red man could forget. 
Sir Edmund liad attacked their friend 

And plundered without law, 
And in the solemn council 

Each voice had been for war. 

Ignoring former treaties, — 

Which their allies ne'er sustained — 
Of slight, and fraud, and falsehood. 

And unfairness, they complained. 
Their mutual accusations 

Made a list both dark and long ; 
And each could well of insult tell, 

And individual wrong. 

The council had declared for war. 

And formal invitation 
Had been to all the warriors given, 

According to their station. 
And now in circles seated. 

With the chiefs and braves within. 
The stern-faced red men waited 

For the war-dance to begin, 

Then up rose Kancamagus, 

And ferocious was his air ; 
High up he swung his hatchet. 

And his brawny arm was bare ; 
The eagle's feather trembled 

In his scalp-lock as he sang. 
And far across the Merrimack 

The Indian's war-song rang. 

"War ! War ! Lift up the hatchet ! 

Bring scalping knife and gun. 
And give no rest to foot or breast 

Till warfare is begun ! 
Look where the braves are gatliered 

Like the clouds before a flood ! 
And Kancamagus' tomahawk 

Is all athirst for blood ! 



MART H. WHEELER. 517 



M}' fathers fought the Tarratines, 

And the Mohawks fierce and strong, 
And ever on the \var-[)ath 

Their whoop was loud and long. 
And Kancamagus' daring, 

And feats of vengeance bold, 
Among the Amariscoggins 

Have been full often told. 

Will the warrior's arm be weaker, 

And will his courage fail, 
When in grounds well known he shall strike for his own . 

And his people's foe assail? 
Will the son of Nanamocomuck 

Stand trembling, like a squaw. 
When the sagamores around him 

Are all hungering for war? 

War ! War ! The foe are sleeping, 

And the scent of blood is sweet. 
And the woods about Cocheco 

Await the warrior's feet ! 
From silent ambush stealing, 

We will capture, slay and burn, 
Till those plundering, cheating English 

Shall the red man's vengeance learn ! 

Their chiefs about Piscataqua 

Refused m^- proffered hand ; 
The bad whites at Cocheco 

By treacher}' took our band, 
They have treated us like reptiles. 

But the red man's da}' is nigh : 
On Kancamagus' wigwam pole 

Their blood}' scalps may dr}' ! 

I am eager as the hunter 

When the fleet deer is in sight. 
And the arrows in my quiver 

Are all trembling for tlie flight ! 
War ! War ! Lift up the hatchet ! 

Bring the scalping-knife and gun ! 
The shade of Isanamoconiuck 

Shall glory in his son ! 



518 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

SONG OF THE FROG. 

Brothers, brothers in the mire, 
Long-tailed tadpoles, frogs entire, 
Come up from the mud below ! * 

Hark, again the waters flow ! 
Hibernating da^'s ai-e o'er. 
We ma}' swim and sing once more. 

Brothers, brothers, hear my call ! 
Come up quickly, one and all ! 
On the banks of pools o'erflowing. 
Green, oh ! green the reeds are growing, 
And the zoospores, set free. 
Whirl around and round with glee. 

Brothers, lo ! the days are long, 
Time it is to raise our song ! 
Twilight, ling'ring in the bogs, 
Listens for the voice of frogs. 
Shall fair Spring commence her reign 
Unannounced by our refrain? 

Brothers, of Batrachian race, 
From great sires our blood we trace ! 
But alas ! for glory gone 
With the labyrinthodon ! 
• Ah ! Ids singing was no joke. 
Now we only croak aiid croak. 

Brothers, brothers, our hearts still 
Feel the great ancestral thrill ! 
This is wh}^ in our veins flow 
Blood discs of such size, you know. 
But the fugue we sing so late, 
Is for race degenerate. 



€cUa iirijaxter. 

Mrs. Thaxter was born in Portsmouth, June 29, 1835. She passed the greater 
part of her early life upon the Isles of Shoals. She published iu the Atlantic 
Monthly, in 18(i7-<38, a series of papers upon these islands which were of great 
interest and value. In 1872 she published a volume of poems which has met with a 
large sale, and another volume has since then been puljlished. The range of her 
poems is <;onlined to the sea and its shores, so that tliey are lacking in the variety 
of scenery, of thought, and of sentiment, wliich we admire in some other authors. 
But on tiie solitary coast, in view of the sea, with its changeful skies, its distant 
ships, and its white-winged sea birds, she is emphatically the most picturesque of 
poets and the subtilest of ideal colorists. Her verses have the very swing of the 
sea. As we reail we feel its cool breath, we perceive its delicate scent, and we hear 
the ripple of the waves and the soft rote on the pebbly beach. 



CELT A TIIAXTER. 519 



THE WRECK OF THE POCAHONTAS. 

I lit the lamps in the light-house tower, 

For the sun dropped down and the da}' was dead, 

They shone like a glorious clustered flower, — 
Ten golden and five red. 

Looking across, where the line of coast 

Stretched darkly, shrinking awaj' from the sea, 

The lights sprang out at its edge, — almost 
They seemed to answer me ! 

O warning lights, burn bright and clear ! 

Hither the storm comes ! Leagues away 
It moans and thunders low and drear, — 

Burn till the break of day ! 

Good night ! I called to the gulls that sailed 
Slow past me through the evening sky ; 

And m}- comrades, answering shrilly, hailed 
Me back with boding cry. 

A mournful breeze began to blow. 

Weird music it drew through the iron bars, 
The sullen billows boiled below, 

And dimly peered the stars ; 

The sails that flecked the ocean floor 
From east to west leaned low and fled ; 

They knew what came in the distant roar 
That filled the air with dread ! 

Flung by a fitful gust, there beat 

Against the window a dash of rain : — 

Steady as tramp of marching feet 
Strode on the hurricane. 

It smote the waves for a moment still, 

Level and deadlj' white for fear ; 
The bare rock shuddered, — an awful thrill 

Shook even my tower of cheer. 

Like all the demons loosed at last. 

Whistling and shrieking, wild and wide. 

The mad wind raged, while strong and fast 
Kolled in the rising tide. 

And soon in ponderous showers, the spray. 
Struck from the granite, reared and sprung 

And clutched at tower and cottage gray. 
Where overwhelmed they clung 



■320 POETS OF NEW HAMP8HIBE. 

Half drowning to the naked rock ; 

But still burned on the faithful light, 
Nor faltered at the tempest's shock, 

Through all the fearful night. 

Was it in vain? That knew not we. 

We seemed, in that confusion vast 
Of rushing wind and roaring sea, 

One point whereon was cast 

The whole Atlantic's weight of brine. 

Heaven help the ship should drift our way '. 
No matter how the light might shine 

Far on into the day. 

When morning dawned, above the din 
Of gale and breaker boomed a gun ! 

Another ! We who sat within 
Answered with cries each one. 

Into each other's ej^es, with fear. 

We looked through helpless tears, as still, 

One after one, near and more near. 
The signals pealed, until 

The thick storm seemed to break apart 
To show us, staggering to her grave, 

The fated brig. We had no heart 
To look, for naught could save. 

One glimpse of black hull heaving slow, 
Then closed the mists, o'er canvas torn 

And tangled ropes swept to and fro 
From masts that raked forlorn. 

Weeks after, 3'et ringed round with spray, 
Our island lay, and none might land ; 

Though blue the waters of the ba}^ 
Stretched calm on either hand. 

And when, at last, from the distant shore 
A little boat stole out to reach 

Our loneliness, and bring once more 
Fresh human thought and speech, 

We told our tale, and the boatmen cried : 
" 'Twas the Pocahontas^ — all were lost ! 

For miles along the coast the tide 
Her shattered timbers tossed." 



CELIA THAXTER. 521 

Then I looked the whole horizon round, — 

So beautiful the ocean spread 
About us, o'er those sailors drowned ! 

"Father in heaven," I said, — 

A child's grief struggling in my breast, — 

"Do purposeless th}' childreu meet 
Such bitter death? How was it best 

These hearts should cease to beat? 

O wherefore ! Are we naught to Thee? 

Like senseless weeds that rise and fall 
Upon thine awful sea, are we 

No more then, after all?" 

And I shut the beaut}- from mv sight, 
For I thought of the dead that lay below ; 

From the bright air faded the warmth and light, 
There came a chill like snow. 

Then I heard the far-off rote resound, 

Where the breakers slow and slumberous rolled. 

And a subtle sense of Thought profound 
Touched me with power untold. 

And like a voice eternal spake 

That wondrous rliA'tlim, and, "Peace be still!" 
It murmured, "bow thy head and take 

Life's rapture and life's ill. 

And wait. At last all shall be clear." 

The long, low, mellow music rose 
And fell, and soothed my dreaming ear 

With infinite repose. 

Sighing I climbed the light-house stair, 

Half forgetting ray grief and i)ain ; 
And while the da}' died, sweet and fair, 

I lit the lamps again. 



A TRYST. 

From out the desolation of the north 

An iceberg took its way, 
From its detaining conn-ades breaking forth, 

And travelling night and da}'. 

At whose command?, Who bade it sail the deep 
With that resistless force ? 



522 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Who made the dread appointment it must keep ? 
Who traced its awful course ? 

To the warm airs that stir in the sweet south, 

A good ship spread her sails ; 
State!}' she passed beyond the harbor's mouth 

Chased by the favoring gales ; 

And on her ample decks a happy crowd 

Bade the fair land good-by ; 
Clear shone the day, with not a single cloud 

In all the peaceful sky. 

Brave men, sweet women, little children bright, 

For all these she made room. 
And with her freight of l)eaut3^ and delight 

She went to meet her doom. 

Storms buffeted the iceberg, spray was swept 

Across its loftiest height ; 
Guided alike hy storm and calm, it kept 

Its fatal path aright. 

Then warmer waves gnawed at its crumbling base. 

As if in piteous plea ; 
The ardent sun sent slow tears down its face, 

Soft flowing to the sea. 

Dawn kissed it with her tender rose tints, Eve 

Bathed it in violet, 
The wistful color o'er it seemed to grieve 

With a divine regret. 

Whether Day clad its clefts in rainbows dim 

And shadowy as a dream, 
Or Night through lonely spaces saw it swim 

White in the moonlight's gleam. 

Ever Death rode upon its solemn heights. 

Ever his watch he kept ; 
Cold at its lieart through changing days and nights 

Its changeless purpose slept. 

And where afar a smiling coast it passed, 

Straightway the air grew chill ; 
Dwellers thereon perceived a bitter blast, 

A vague report of ill. 

Like some imperial creature, moving slow. 
Meanwhile, with matchless grace. 



CELT A THAXTEB. 523 

The statcl}' ship, unconscious of her foe, 
Drew near the try sting place. 

For still the prosperous breezes followed her, 

And half the vo3age was o'er ; 
In man}- a breast glad thoughts began to stir 

Of lands that lay before. 

And human hearts with longing love were dumb, 

That soon should cease to beat, 
Thrilled with the hope of meetings soon to come, 

And lost in memories sweet. 

Was not the weltering waste of water wide 

Enough for both to sail ? 
What drew the two together o'er the tide, 

Fair ship and iceberg pale ? 

There came a night with neither moon nor star, 

Clouds draped the sky in black ; 
With fluttering canvas reefed at everj- spar. 

And weird fire in her track. 

The ship swept on ; a wild wind gathering fast 

Drove her at utmost speed . 
Bravely she bent before the fitful blast 

That shook her like a reed. 

O helmsman, turn thy wheel ! Will no surmise 

Cleave through the midnight drear? 
No warning of the horrible surprise 

Reach thine unconscious ear? 

She rushed upon her ruin. Not a flash 

Broke up the waiting dark ; 
Dull}- through wind and sea one awful crash 

Sounded, with none to mark. 

Scarcely her crew had time to clutch despair. 

So swift the work was done : 
Ere their pale lips could frame a speechless prayer, 

They perished, every one ! 

SORROW. 

Upon my lips she laid her touch divine, 

And merry s[)eech and careless laughter died ; 

She fixed her melancholy eyes on mine, 
And would not be denied. 



024 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

I saw the west-wind loose his cloudlets white 
In flocks, careering through tlie April sky, 

I could not sing, though joy was at its height, 
For she stood silent b}'. 

I watched the lovely evening fade awa}'^ ; 

A mist was lightly drawn across the stars ; 
She brok.e ni}- quiet dream, I heard her say 

"Behold your prison bars ! 

"Earth's gladness shall not satisfy j'our soul, 
This beauty of the world in wliich you live, 

The crowning grace that sanctifies the whole, 
That, I alone can give." 

I heard and shrank away from her afraid, 
But still she held me and would still abide ; 

Youth's bounding pulses slackened and obeyed, 
With slowl}' ebbing tide. 

"Look thou beyond the evening star," she said, 
"Be3-ond the changing splendors of the day ; 

Accept the pain, the weariness, the dread, 
Accept and bid me sta}- !" 

1 turned and clasped her close with sudden strength, 
And slowl}-, sweetly, I became aware 

Witliin my arms God's angel stood at length. 
White-robed and calm and fair. 

And now I look bej'ond the evening star. 
Beyond the changing splendors of the day. 

Knowing the jjain He sends more precious far, 
More beautiful, than they. 



©scar Eaigi[)ton. 

Oscar Laighton has lived all his life thus far at the Isles of Shoals, having been 
brought up witli his sister, Mrs. Celia Tliaxter, at AVhite Island, where their father 
kept a light-house. He was sixteen years old before he visited tlie mainland. For 
many years he and his brother have kept tlie Appledore House on Appledore Island. 



SONG. 

The clover blossoms kiss her feet, 

She is so sweet. 
While I, who may not kiss her hand. 
Bless all the wild flowers in the land. 



OSCAR LAIGHTON. 



f>25 



Soft sunshine falls across her breast, 

She is so blest. 
I'm jealous of its arms of gold, 
O that these arms her form migjit foUl ! 

Gently the breezes kiss her hair, 

Siie is so fair. 
Let flowers and sun and breeze go by, — 
O dearest ! Love me or I die. 



SONG. 

Sweet wind that blows o'er sunny isles 

The softness of the sea, 
Blow thou across these moving miles 

News of my love to me. 

Ripples her hair like waves that sweep 

About this pleasant shore ; 
Her eyes are bluer than the deep 

Round rock}' Appledore. 

Her sweet breast shames the scattered spray 

Soft kissed by early light : 
I dream she is the dawn of day 

That lifts me out of night ! 



AT SUNSET. 

Come thou with me, dear love, and see the day 
Die on the sea, and o'er the distant land 

This last faint glow of twilight fade away, 
The while I hold in mine thy gentle iiand. 

The lessening light gleams on yon leaning sail ; 

Slowly the sim has sunk beyond the hill. 
And sombre night in silence draws her veil 

Over us two, and everything grows still, 

Save when the tide, with constant ebb and flow 

Of wandering waves that greet the steadlast shore. 

Flashes fair forms of foam that falling throw 
Their ardent arms round rocky Appledore. 

Faint, like a dream, comes the melodious cry 
Of far-olf wild fowl calling from tiie deep ; 

The ros}- color leaves the western skj". 

Over the waves are spread the wings of sleep. 



52G POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

Silent a meteor falls into the night, 

Sweeping its silver shower across the stars ; 

Low down Arcturus sinks with waning light, 
High in the east climbs up the shining Mars. 

And whispering b}' us with a silent kiss 

Comes the sweet south wind o'er the slumbering sea. 
Thou dearest ! can such perfect joy as this 

Be always mine, to drift through life with thee? 



HER SHAWL. 

Dearest, where art thou ? In the silent room 
I find this wonder of some foreign loom, 
Thy silken shawl, whose lines of loveliness 
The matchless beaut}' of thy form caress. 
Delicate raiment, shall I dare infold 
All these warm kisses mid th}' threads of gold ? 
Oh, hold them close her icy heart above, 
Melting its winter into summer's love ! 
Beneath her coldness fonder still I grow, 
As violets bloom along the edge of snow. 
Through my sad heart there drifts a hope divine, 
O'er seas storm-swept shall softer mornings shine ; 
So love ma}- dawn for me while at thy feet 
1 wait, and kiss thy garment's hem, m}- sweet. 



Hev. W. R. Cochrane, son of Hon. Robert B. and Elizabeth (Warren) Cochrane, 
■wan born in New Boston, Aug. '25, 1835. Doing his best in a very humble district 
school, afterwards by "boarding himself" at select schools here and there, he went 
t(>Fraucestown Academy to finish fitting for college, and was graduated at Dart- 
mouth in the class of 1859. He was twice elected tutor in said college, in which 
capacity he served till prevented by failing health. Then Mr. Cochrane was for 
a time teacher of a High School. He was licensed to preach by the Derry tiud 
Manchester Association, April 10, ISGf!. After preaching in several places, as feeble 
health would all^w, he began service with the Presbyterian church, Antrim, Jan. 
1, 1808, and continues pastor of the same. The poems of Mr. Cochrane have ap. 
peared occasionally for many years in the papers— chiefly the Congregationalist. 
He gave the poem at the centennial of New Boston, July 4, 1863. Also "Airs" a 
poem at the semi-centennial reunion of Francestowu Academy. 



A HOME MISSION HYMN. 

"In all the world," the Saviour cries, 

In eveiy clime and kin. 
Where man in chains of error dies, 

Or lives in chains of sin ; 



WABEEX ROBERT COCHRANE. 527 

"To every creature preach mj- Word ;" 

And shall not that command 
With first obedience be heard. 

For friends and native land ? 

Shall not our golden western gates 

By holy feet be trod ? 
And rising homes and forming states 

Be trained to worship God ? 

Can we the hills of glory reach 

Through grace the Master gave, 
If men of the same land and speech 

We do not try to save ? 

Oh ! giving wealth and toil and care, 

Let each beseech the skies 
Till covered with its cloud of praj-er 

Our nation's incense rise ! 

Till truth shine from each western height. 

And from each eastern dome, 
And Christ in all his love and light 

Reach ever}' heart and home ! 



THANKS FOR THE YEARS. 

These quiet j'ears ! These quiet j-ears ! 
From worldly hopes and worldlj' fears, 
And Fortune's glittering snares apart ; 
So close to nature's smile and heart ; 
Sweet, noiseless, peaceful, near the shore, 
Yes, ni}- Father, o'er and o'er 
I thank thee for these quiet 3ears ! 

These saddened 3'ears ! These saddened years ! 

Pains, partings, sins — so much, for tears ! 

So many failings that I mourn. 

So many loved ones from me torn, 

The griefs of others on me pressed ; 

Yes, Lord, since thou hast thought it best, 

I thank thee for these saddened 3'ears ! 

These toilsome years ! These toilsome years ! 
Whose work, like sunlight, disappears 
Awhile ; the toil of heart and mind 
To help the weak, to lead the blind. 
To guide the strong with zealous care ; 



528 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

Yes, Lord, in many an earnest prayer 
I thank thee for these toilsome years ! 

Tliese happy years ! These happy 3'ears ! 
The hand that helps, the love that eheei's, 
Blessing each day ; and all the while 
A Father's unabated smile ; 
Fast friends and saintly fellowships ; 
Yes, blessed Lord, with reverent lips 
I thank thee for these happy 3-ears ! 

These hopeful years ! These hopeful 3'ears ! 

Arched over them thy bow appears. 

And in its radiant lines I see 

Thy promises of love to me — 

Home, rest with Christ forevermore ; 

Yes, O m3- Father, o'er and o'er 

I thank thee for these hopeful 3ears ! 



THE MORNING CALL. 

How well I remember long ago 

A voice at m3' chamber calling. 
When shining over the hills of snow 

The light of morn was falling ! 
How gladl3' I think of his whitened head. 

And his hair so thin and curl3', 
As he said to us scampering oif to bed, 

"I'll call 3'ou bright and early !" 

And never he failed to call us so. 

Whatever his work or worr3' ; 
And down to the glowing hearth below 

We rushed, half-dressed, in a hurr3' ! 
And oh ! what a welcome there we had, 

A troop of laughing faces ; 
And the old round table looked so glad 

When we all got into our places ! 

Now the father who called us, old and wnn. 

Is near to a deeper slumber. 
And into the silent land are gone 

Most of that happ3- number. 
But a tenderer Father, who never sleeps, 

Sees all in their night robes hidden ; 
And over each narrow chamber keeps 

His fatherly watch unbidden ! 



WARBEN B OBEB T CO CHBANE. 529 



And out of that slumber's deeper thrall, 

Since He Himself decreed it, 
We shall hear the sound of his morning call, 

And hurry, as then, to heed it ! 
And gladder than ever we were before, 

Where toil and death could sever. 
We expect to meet on the otlier shore, 

And part no more forever ! 

Tlien forth to labor I wend my way, 

No toil that He gives me hating,' 
Till sunset gold or evening gray 

Shall end m}- wearj- waiting. 
And "down to sleep" I consent to go, 

No marks of ni}- chamber scorning. 
Because my Father in heaven, I know, 

Will wake us in the mornine: ! 



NEAR. 

I feel so blessedly near at times, 
As to question which it may be ; 

My poor spirit to heaven that climbs. 
Or heaven that comes to me. 

I catch the air of the flowery land 
And the odors so sweet it brings ; 

And fancy my wondering face is fanned 
By the sweep of the angels' wings. 

I can almost see the beautiful throng 

In their high and holy mirth ; 
And breathe the notes of the heavenly song, 

Though I never could sing on earth. 

Only a step — a veil between 

The dark and the light, so thin, 
That we who are walking the outward scene 

In a moment may pass within. 

And then, I know, will my vision be free, 

And my eyes no more be dim. 
When He who so often has come to me, 

Shall call me away to Him. 

And then I shall see how the heaven that lies 
> So near, should be yet unseen ; 
For the light was too brilliant for earthly eyes 
Without a veil between. 



530 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Julia Ym Ness 212Ei)ipple. 

Mrs. Whipple is the youngest daugliter of the late Capt. N. Q. Dana, U. S. A., and 
sister of Major General N. G. T. Dana, formerly of the army. On her mother's 
side she is descended from the old historic family of Langdou of Dartmouth. She 
was born at Fort Monroe, Va. Her father died when she was but three years old, 
and after a few years her mother was married to Hon. Charles H. Peaslee, well 
known in this state, and who was Collector of the port of Boston during the admin- 
istration of President Pierce. Mrs. Whipple was married at the age of seventeen 
to J. P. Whipple of this state but at that time a merchant in New Orleans. When 
she was twenty-three years of age her husband died, leaving one little boy 
who has become a broker in New York City. From 18G2 to 18G3 Mrs. AV'hipple ac- 
quired considerable reputation as an elocutionest and Shakspearian reader, when 
a delicacy of the throat obliged her to relinquish public reading. Since the death 
of her husband she has resided mostly in Portsmouth. 



PEARLS. 

O pearls, fair pearls of the deep blue sea, 
Emblems of spotless puritjs 
White as the soul of a spotless child, 
Pure as the thoughts of a maiden mild. 
Clear, from each sign of stain or flaw, 
As the robes of white winged angels are ; 
Gem of heaven ! though born in the sea, 
In thy matchless purity, chosen to be 
Set for the gates of that cit}' bright. 
Where the glor}' of God is the only light, 
■ Where each of the twelve great gates will be 
One pearl, of surpassing purity, 
Opening wide for that happy band 
Who shall enter iu to the promised land. 
The New Jerusalem, — decked as a bride 
For the hosts who have followed "The Crucified," 
Who have "fought the fight and kept the faith," 
Are delivered forevermore from death, 
Who can nevermore know or pain or fear. 
From whose C3'es God wipes the last sad tear, 
And who in the presence of heaven's great King, 
Their peeans of victory and praise shall sing. 

O bright, bright land of the ever blest ! 
My tired heart longs for th}^ peace and rest, 
And to reach that beautiful, shining shore 
Where death and partings can come no more, 
Where cleansed from each spot the just shall be 
The Pearls of God in Eternity. 



THE VOICE AMID THE TREES. 

As I sit beside my window. 
On this summer eve so fair, 



JULIA VAN NESS WHIPPLE. 531 

Oft I hear amid the stillness 

Whisperings, borne npon the air, 
Gentl}' swelling — and then dying 

Mid the leaves on yonder tree, 
Sweet the words, thongh mostly sad ones, 

That the}' whisper unto me. 

Softl}' sighing — now it brings me 

Cherished memories of the past, 
Sunn}' childhood's happy hours, 

Girlhood's joys, too bright to last. 
Dear loved voices, long since silent, 

Seem to speak again to nie, 
As I listen to the raurmuiing 

In the leaves of 3'onder tree. 

As it speaks, my tears are falling 

For the dearly loved and gone. 
And the shadows seem to darken 

That across my path are thrown. 
Still 3'our whispering oh sad voices, 

Mid the leaves of 3'onder tree, 
If you bring with you no healing 

For those memories sad to me. 

Hark ! again the voice is speaking, 

Soft, and gently sweet 'tis now, 
And methinks the wings of angels 

Gently fan my burning brow. 
Wh}^ so grieving, so despairing? 

Wh}' so weary on th}' road ? 
Think, oh child, thy path of sorrow 

Is to bring thee nearer God. 

Dry thy tears for the departed, 

And mourn not for the living dead, 
Strong and firm be in th}' duty, 

Follow where thy Saviour led. 
"When sad memories cling around you. 

Meet them not with murmuring sigh, 
Listen to the voice that's with you, 

Saying — "Fear not — it is I." 

Thus it is those gentle voices, 

Mid the leaves of yonder tree. 
On this soft, sweet summer evening, 

Have been whispering uuto me. 



532 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

Mi3S Sarali j\I. Parker, rtaughter of Jnsiah M. and Maria A. Parker, was born in 
Atnherst, Oct., 1835, wliere she resided till the year 18.")8, removing then to Lyn<le- 
boro'. The earlier part of her life was somewhat occupied imschool teaching. Of 
late she has been a resident of Milford, where for fourteen years, in connection with 
other duties, she has been engaged in the much loved work of Sunday School teach- 
ing of the little children. 



GOSPEL BELLS. 

Gospel bells are sweetl}^ ringing, 
Messages of love the^-'re bringing 
That will set our hearts to singing ; 

Happy bells ! 
How the Lord of life and glory 
Seeks the sinner, lost and lowly, 

This it tells. 

List the bell of invitation. 
Calling every tribe and nation, 
To the waters of salvation, — 

Hear it tell, 
"Come, the fountain faileth never; 
Come, and drink, and live forever. 

Blessed bell ! 

Slighted is the invitation, 
Lo, the bell expostulation, 
Sendeth forth its exhortation 

"Why, O, why. 
Still His love and mercy spurning ? 
To the fountain quick be turning ; 

AVillyedie?" 

If these calls we still are scorning. 
Clear as song of birds at morning, 
Then the solemn bell of warning 

Gives its voice : 
If these messages unheeding, 
All too late ye may be pleading ; 

"Make joxxv choice." 

Bell of hope ! it soundeth cheery. 
When all other sounds are drear}*. 
And the heart has grown aweary, — 

Far from home. 
"Whosoever will," 'tis saying, 
"With no doubt or fear delaying, 

Let him come." 



SARAH M. PARKER. 533 



If no more His goodness spurning, 
Wliose great love is o'er us ^-earning, 
Unto him repentant turning, 

We shall live. 
For then rings, as we surrender, 
Mercy bell ! in accents tender, 

"I forgive!" 

Bell of peace ! 'tis softly stealing, 
As at his dear feet we're kneeling, 
More of Jesus' love revealing. 

Full supply. 
For the waters of the fountain, 
Flowing down from Calvary's mountain, 

Satisfy. 

Bell of faith ! 'tis stronger, clearer, 
As to heaven we're coming nearer, 
And its mansions grow the dearer, 

"Wondrous bright ! 
It will cease its ringing, never. 
Till we reach the bright forever ; 

Land of Light ! 

Bells of joy in heaven are ringing; 
Joy bells in m}- soul are singing. 
From the fountain I am bringing: 

Glad I am ! 
Record of the blest forgiven, 
Happy family of heaven, 

Bears my name 

To the morning breezes given, 
To the silent breath of even, 
Ringing all day long to heaven, 

Bell of prayer ! 
In God's ear we pour our sadness. 
Thus we tell him all our gladness ; 

Heard up there. 

For His wondrous love, abounding. 
All our i)athway here surrounding. 
Be to highest heaven resounding, 

Bell of praise ! 
Ring, till earth shall bow before Him, 
And till every heart adore him, 

For his grace. 



534 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Bell of promise ! down the ages, 
From where sin its war first wages, 
Lo, it ringeth, and engages 

Christ shall save. 
And more clearly still it ringeth, 
As from out the tomb he bringeth 

Life He gave ! 

I am lost in adoration, 

And mount up with exultation. 

As 1 list the proclamation 

Of this bell ; 
For of sinless life eternal, 
With our Lord where fields are vernal. 

Doth it tell. 

While salvation's bell is ringing, 
And its fountain upward springing. 
Golden hours their waj' are winging ; 

Pause and think ! 
Do not longer be delaying, 
Hear the voice of Jesus saying, 

"Come and drink." 

Chime of bells ! of love they're telling, 
Love, all other love excelling, 
Angels on the theme are dwelling, 

Up above. 
Talk no more of earthly glory. 
Tell to me the sweet old story, — 

Jesus' love. 



HOME. 



Where is yonr home, O my beautiful child? 
"Home is with mother," she said as she smiled, 
" 'Tis where my father, no kinder could be. 
Takes up his little one oft on his knee, 
'Tis where the birds sing so sweetly all da}', 
Down where the bees and the butterflies play, 
Where the bright roses climb over the door, 
I am so happ3', what can I want more?" 

Maiden, fair maiden, say where is 3'our home? 
Is there a spot whence 3'ou never would roam ? 
Is there a place where unfailing 3'ou meet 
What the heart craveth in confidence sweet? 



MATTIE FRANCES JONES. 535 

"Yes, in a heart that is loving and true, 
There is my home — I will tell it to 3'ou. 
He whom I cherish is noble and good ; 
Where better home could I find if I would ?" 

Where is j^our home, mother? "Gladly I'll tell ;" 
'Tis where my husband and little ones dwell, 
Where sweet contentment reigns all the day long, 
And oft ascendeth the pra3'er and the song ; 
Pleasant home duties, the glad hours invite 
To bless and make beautiful, this my delight. 
'Tis where love reigneth, nor discord can come ; 
Say, do 30U wonder I cherish my home ?" 

Christian, the}' tell me of mansions of bliss, 
Where is your home, that is brighter than this? 
Where never waves of adversity roll. 
And not a sorrow oppresseth the soul? 
"Over the river, — the mansions are fair, 
My Father is waiting to welcome me there, 
Sin never can enter, its pleasures to blight. 
Its sun goes not down in the shadow of night. 
There's room for whoever, through Jesus, will come, 
And fulness of J03' in His presence at home." 



iiflattic jfranresi Jones. 

Mrs. Jones, whose 710m deplume is "Nettie Vernon," was born in Iluflson.ln 183C. 
She is a daughter of the late Dea. E. S. Marsh. She was educated at the Nashua 
Literary Institution, and at Appleton Academy, Mount Vernon. She has l)een 
much of the time engaged in teaching. In 1864 she became the wife of Mr. James 
S. Jones, who had been laboring for a term of years as a teacher in CaliCornia. 
Returning to that state with his wife soon after marriage, they remained until 1S7.5. 
Mrs. Jones assisted her husband in his vocation, teaching in several counties. A 
little family has gathered around her, and amid life's busy cares she flmls but 
little time to devote to literature. She was formerly a contributor to Arthur'* 
Home Magazine, and other periodicals. They reside in Merrimack. 



WILL IT BE ALWAYS NIGHT? 

Will it be always night? 

God knows how drear 
Is earth's poor trembling light ; 

Will he not hear 
Each whispered prayer, and note each falling tear? 

Will it be always night — 

Cold night, and lone? 
Shall I ne'er see tile light 

From His white throne? 
A glimmering light to guide me, trusting, on ? 



536 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

"Will it be always night ? 

Long time mine e3'e 
Hath sought hope's dawning light 
O'er time's dark sky ! 
Faith's purest light, why greets it not mine eye ? 

Will it be always night ? 
Cold sorrow's wave — 
I've felt its chillness quite, 
And, by yon grave, 
0, hear m}^ pra3'er, AU-mercifal to save ! 

Will it be alwajj-s night, 

Night of despair? 
Of longings for the bright. 
Celestial sphere? 
Thy grace, my Father, 'twill life's burden aid to bear ! 

Heaven hath no night ! 

It hath no waning day ! 
But pure and brilliant light 
Shineth for aye ! 
No weary pil|rim seeketh there the way ! 



HAVE FAITH AND PERSEVERE. 

Are you weary, sister, weary toiling up the narrow way? 

Is life's path all dark, all dreary, — do no sunbeams round it play? 

Trust in God ! His love will surely turn the night-time into day ! 

Are 3'ou fainting, sister, fainting for the words of hope and cheer? 
Have they long remained unspoken, never falling on thine ear? 
Trust in God 1 His words of promise will arrest the falling tear ! 

Are you sitting, sister, sitting where the shadows thickly fall ? 
Is th}^ spirit all o'ershadowed, 'neath the folds of sorrow's pall? 
God's free grace is ever giving sweetest sunshine unto all ! 

Are you waiting, sister, waiting for the brilliant morning dawn, 
Ere thy soul goes forth in conflict mid the hosts of right and 

wrong ? 
If he aid thee in the conflict, soon the direst foe is gone. 

Do not linger, sister, linger mid these shades of grief and gloom ! 
Look beyond earth's narrow limits and the portals of the tomb ! 
Heaven has flowers of rarest, sweetest fragrance and perfume. 

Will you pluck them, sister, pluck them to entwine around th}' 

brow? 
Linger not amid the c^'press ; fairer flowers await thee now. 
And the brightest crown in heaven ma}- be woven here below ! 



CHARLOTTE M. PALMER. 537 



a!i)arlotte fE. lialmcr. 



Miss Palmer is a native of Dover, where she still resides. She is a writer of hoth 
prose and verse. Her poems occasionally appear in the Boston Traveller and iu 
the Christian At Work. 



FAITH. 

Oiu' God gives perfect peace to those 
Whose minds are sta3'ed on him ; 

Believing, trusting, they repose 
In faith, though liope grow dim. 

Faith can endure all present ill, 

As seeing Him, unseen, 
"Who gives us strength to do his will. 

Or bear, with soul serene. 

Faith owns a charm which none maj- sooni, 

A precious secret knows ; 
"Where worldly minds bewail the thorn, 

Faith sees the budding rose. 

Faith hears God's fond assuring voice 

Above the thunders loud, 
Sees his benignant, smiling face 

Through the dark, threatening cloud. 

Faith, like the lark, mounts heavenward, 

Soaring on noiseless wings, 
Till, distant from earth's mists and jars, 

In calm, pure air she sings. 

Faith views this life as pilgrimage ; 

We tent on foreign strand. 
Still toiling on to reach, at length, 

Our home, the promised land. 

Faith's torch the dangerous road illumes 

Which leads us to the tomb ; 
Through shadowy vistas we discern 
* Bright shores beyond the gloom. 

Though tossed on time's tempestuous zone, 

A realm of rest outlies ; 
Faith, foiling death, convoys the soul 

To gates of paradise. 



538 . POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

A HYMN OF TRUST. 

Father, th}^ paternal love 
Guards me safe where'er I rove. 
Real good can ne'er befall 
Him who trusts to thee for all. 
Mid the snares of life I tread, 
Ever by thy goodness led ; 
Every hour new mercies fall ; 
Let me view thy hand in all. 

Seeming evil hath its good, 
If but rightly understood ; 
III to good thy hand can turn, 
Tears to smiles, for those wlio mourn ; 
Faithful ones have borne for thee 
Suffering, shame and poverty ; 
In th}' promise did the}' rest, 
With thy presence the}"- were blest. 

Saints have suffered cruel death, 
Witnessing with latest breath 
To this hidden, mighty power — 
Victors in the mortal hour. 
Prison-cell and dungeon-chain 
Echo back the sweet refrain : 
"Evil cannot me befall. 
While I see my Lord in all !" 

Martyrs doomed to sword and flame 
For tiie love they bore thy name, 
These all join in sweet accord : 
"Faithful is our gracious Lord." 
Saviour, guardian, glorious friend, 
Let me trust thee to the end ; 
Let me hear thee gently say : 
"Child, I am thy strength and stay." 

^f)omasi 1i3aileB Eltrridj. 

T. B. Aldrich is a native of Portsmouth, born in 1836. After trying mercantile 
pursuits in a New York counting-room, lie gave his attention to literature; was con- 
nected with the Hoine Journal, and other periodicals, and became a frequent con- 
tributor to the leading magazines. He began to publish poems in the Portsmouth 
Journal in 1854. liis "Baby Bell" appeared in 18.i8, showing that he had not mis- 
taken his vocation. Removing to Boston, he published a series of tales which at- 
tracted much attention, and were translated into French. Mr. Aldrich has ma<le 
two visits to Europe with his wile, and given evidence that they were not unproflt- 
able in literary respects. His poetical vein is rich, delicate and tender; and the cul- 
tivated circle he addresses is alwavs enlarging. He has published several volumes or 
poems and of flcUon, and recently, a Life of N. P. Willis. A complete edition of 
his poems in one volume was published in 1882. 



THOMAS BAILEY ALDEICH. 53D 

ENAMORED ARCHITECT OF AIRY RHYME. 

Enamored architect of air^' rhj'me, 

Build as thou wilt ; heed not what each man says. 

Good souls, but innocent of dreamers' ways, 
"Will come, and marvel why thou wastest time ; 
Others, beholding how thy turrets climb 

'Twixt theirs and heaven, will hate thee all tlicir days ; 

But most beware of those who come to praise. 
Wondersraith, O worker in sublime 
And heaven-sent dreams, let art be all in all ; 
Build as thou wilt, unspoiled by praise or blame, 

Build as thou wilt, and as thy light is given : 
Then, if at last the airy structure fall, 
Dissolve and vanish — take thyself no shame. 

The}' fail, and they alone, who have not striven. 



SLEEP. 



When to soft sleep we give ourselves away, 
And in a dream as in a fairy bark 
Drift on and on through the enchanted dark 

To purple daybreak — little thought we pay 

To that sweet bitter world we know by day. 
We are clean quit of it, as is a lark 
So high in heaven no human eye ma}' mark 

The thin, swift pinion cleaving through the gi'a}'. 

Till we awake ill fate can do no ill, 

The resting heart shall not take up again 

The heavy load that yet must make it bleed ; 

For this brief space the loud world's voice is still, 
No faintest echo of it brings us pain. 

How will it be when we shall sleep indeed? 



TITA'S TEARS.— A FANTASY. 

A certain man of Ischia — it is thus 

The story runs — one L^'dus Claudius, 

After a life of threescore years and ten, 

JPassed suddenly from out the. world of men 

Into the Avorld of shadows. In a vale 

Where shoals of spirits against the moonlight pale 

Surged ever ui)ward, in a wan-lit place 

Near heaven, lie met a rresence face to face — 

A figure like a carving on a spire, 



540 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Shrouded in wings and with a fillet of fire 

About the brows — who staj'ed him there, and said : 

"This the gods grant to thee, O newly dead ! 

Whatever thing on earth thou boldest dear 

Shall, at th}' bidding, be transported here, 

Save wife or child, or any living thing." 

Then straightway Claudius fell to wondering 

What he should wish for. Having heaven at hand, 

His wants were few, as you can understand. 

Riches and titles, matters dear to us, 

To him, of course, were now superfluous : 

But Tita, small brown Tita, his young wife, 

A two weeks' bride when he took leave of life, 

What would become of her without his care? 

Tita, so rich, so thoughtless, and so fair ! 

At present crushed with sorrow, to be sure — 

But b}' and by? What earthly- griefs endure? 

They pass like joys. A year, three 3'ears at most, 

And would she mourn her lord, so quickly lost? 

With fine, prophetic ear, he heard afar 

The tinkling of some horrible guitar 

Under her balcon}-. "Such thing could be," 

Sighed Claudius ; "I would she were with me. 

Safe from all harm." But as that wish were vain, 

He let it drift from out his troubled brain 

(His highly trained austerity was such 

That self-denial never cost him much,) 

And strove to tliink what object he might name 

Most closely linked with the bereaved dame. 

Her wedding ring? — 'twould be too small to wear ; 

Perhaps a ringlet of her raven hair? 

If not, her portrait, done in cameo. 

Or on a background of pale gold? But no, 

Such trifles jarred with his severity. 

At lengtli he thought : "The thing most meet for me 

AVould be that antique flask wherein my bride 

Let fall her heav}' tears the night I died." 

(It was a custom of that simple day 

To have one's tears sealed up and laid away, 

As everlasting tokens of regret — 

The}' find the bottles in Greek ruins yet.) 

For this he wished, then. 

Swifter than a thought 
The Presence vanished, and the flask was brought — 
Slender, bell-mouthed, and painted all around 
With jet-black tulips on a saftron ground ; 



GEORGE D UDLE Y D ODGE. ^4 1 

A tiny jar, of porcelain if 3-011 will, 
Which twenty tears would rather more than fill. 
With careful fingers Claudius broke the seal 
When, suddenly, a w^ell-known merry peal 
Of laughter leapt from out the vial's throat, 
And died, as dies the wood-bird's distant note. 
Claudius stared ; then, struck with strangest fears, 
Reversed the fla§k — 

Alas, for Tita's tears ! 



€)icorp ©utrlcjj 33otrge. 

Mr. Dodge is a native of Hampton Falls, born in 1S30. lie entered Brown Uni- 
v^>rsity but never graduated, on account of ill health. Ho has been a merchant, and 
a manufacturer, but now fiiuls health and pleasure in the cultivation of the soil. 
He resided three years in Savannah, Georgia, when a bookseller. In 1880 he was 
the candidate of the Pi-ohil)ition parly for Governor of this state. He still resitles at 
Hampton Falls. 



PEACE BE STILL. 

Tempest-tossed on the billows of life. 
Weary and worn with struggle and strife, 
Upward I glance to heaven above, 
And list to words of tender love — 
''Peace be still. O troubled soul, 
I will all thy grief console." 

Hope would vanish, and the giant Des])air 
Would drag nn' soul to his dreadful lair. 
But for the voice of tender love 
iSpeaking to me from heaven above, 
"Peace be still, troubled soul, 
I will every foe control." 

Let the tempest roar and the billows roll, 
Nought shall disturb my peaceful soul. 
While come to me from heaven above 
These cheering words of tender love, 
"Peace be still, O troubled soul, 
I will eveiy storm control." 

God help poor souls in the voyage of life. 
Weary and worn witli struggle and strife, 
Who hear no voice of tender love 
Speaking to them from heaven above, 
"Peace be still, O troubled soul, 
I will all thy grief console." 



542 POETS OF NEW HAMP8HIBE. 

Kancg l^xmt Wi^Um^, 

Nancy A. W. Priest w<as born in Roylston, Mass., Dec. 7, 1836. She received her 
education at a common school. Her desire for reading was very great and she im- 
proved every spare moment for that purpose. She began to write poetry at the age 
of six years. In the spring of 1857 she went to Hinsdale, and was there employe(l 
for several years in a paper-mill. In 1865 she was married to Arlington C. Wake- 
lield. They removed to Bartonsville, "Vt., where she died May 28, 18(39, leavingthree 
children, the youngest but twenty-nine days old. It was while at work in the mill 
at Hinsdale that she composed the immortal poem "Over the River." It was writ- 
ten while in the mill at noon, on a stormy April day, after she had partaken of her 
lunch, and the idea was suggested as she looked across the dark Ashuelot river. 
A volume of her poems, entitled, "Over the River, and other Poems," is published 
by her motlier Mrs. Sophia B. Priest, of Winchendon, Mass. It appeared in the 
spring of 1883. It contains nearly all of Mrs. Wakelield's poems which were print- 
ed under dili'erent signatures, as Nancy Priest, Lizzie Lincoln, etc., and some 
which have never before been in print. It is a volume of sweet poetry. 



OVER THE RIVER. 

Over the river they beckon to me, 

Loved ones who crossed to the further side ; 
The gleam of their snowy robes I see, 

But their voices are lost in the dashing tide. 
There's one with ringlets of sunn}' gold. 

And ej'es the reflection of heaven's own blue ; 
He crossed in the twilight, gray and cold. 

And the pale mist hid him from mortal view. 
We saw not the angels who met him there, 

The gates of the city we could not see, 
Over the river — over the river — 

My brother stands waiting to welcome me. 

Over the river the boatman pale 

Carried another, the household pet : 
Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale — 

Darling Minnie ! I see her 3'et. 
She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands, 

And fearlessly entered the phantom bark. 
We felt it glide from the silver sands. 

And all our sunshine grew strangel}' dark. 
We know she is safe on the further side, 

Where all the ransomed and angels be ; 
Over the river — the mystic river — 

My childhood's idol is waiting for me. 

For none return from those quiet shores 

Who cross with the boatman cold and pale — 

We hear the dip of the golden oars, 
And catch a gleam of tlie snowy sail ; 

And lo ! the}' have passed from our yearning hearts, 
Who cross the stream, and are gone for aye, 



NANCY PBIEST WAKEFIELD. 543 

We may not sunder the veil apart, 

That hides from our vision the gates of da}- ; 

We only know that their barks no more 
May sail with us over life's stormy sea ; 

Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore, 
They watch, and beckon, and wait for me. 

And I sit and think when the sunset's gold 

Is flushing river and hill and shore, 
I shall one day stand b}- the water cold, 

And list for the sound of tlie boatman's oar ; 
I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail, 

I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand, 
I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale, 

To the better shore of the spirit land ; 
I shall know the loved who have gone before. 

And joyfull}- sweet will the meeting be. 
When over the river — the peaceful river — 

The angel of death shall carry me. 



HEAVEN. 

Beyond these chilling winds and gloomy skies, 

Be3ond death's cloud}- [portal. 
There is a land where beaut}- never dies, 

And love becomes immortal. 

A land whose light is never dimmed by shade, 

Whose fields are ever vernal ; 
Where nothing beautiful can ever fade, 

But blooms for aye, eternal. 

We may not know how sweet the balmy air, 

How bright and fair its flowers ; 
We may not hear the songs that echo there, 

Through those enchanted bowers. 

The city's shining towers we may not see 

With our dim, earthly vision ; 
For death, the silent warden, keeps the key 

That opes those gates elysian. 

But sometimes, when adown the western sky 

The fiery sunset lingers. 
Its golden gates swing inward noiselessly, 

Unlocked by unseen fingers. 



514 POETS OF NEW HAMP8HIBE. 

And while the}' stand a moment half ajar, 

Gleams from the inner glorj- 
Stream brightly through the azure vault afar, 

And half reveal the storj'. 

O land unknown ! O land of love divine ! 

Father all wise, eternal, 
Guide, guide these wandering, wayworn feet of mine 

Into those pastures vernal. 



Banicl 31. imilliiitcn. 

D. L. Milliken was born in Walpole. His education was mostly obtainerl at Kim- 
ball Union Academy. He is editor of the "Heartli and Home," a magazine pub- 
lished in Boston. 



GARFIELD. 

Outborne on thought's electric wings, 
Swift flies the midnight's moaning breath 

O'er huts of toil and halls of kings, 
And brings to each the hush of death. 

Ah, midnight bells ! Ah, tolling bells ! 

Ye rouse a million sleeping bands ! 
Ah, sad, sad bells ! Your throbbing tells 

To each the drain of golden sands. 

The nation's trusted ruler dead ! 

Too deep for finite minds to trace 
The ivliy his gentle blood was shed — 

As well might mortals fathom space. 

The damning deed all time shall ban. 

And Scotia's thought shall deeper burn — 

"Man's inhumanit}' to man," 

Alas! "makes countless thousands mourn. 

And when on each centennial height 
The nation calls her honored roll. 

Shall Garfield's name, in letters bright. 
With Lincoln's writ, enstar the scroll. 

His lofty life, and martyr death. 
Touch softl^y love's electric cords. 

And hush and banish, with a breath, 
The dire and wicked war of words. 



DANIEL L. MILLIKEN. 545 

Heroic soul, th}'^ fight is o'er, 

The world's great heart thy captive now ; 
From pole to pole, from shore to shore, 

Thy loyal legions loving bow. 

Foi'ever brave to dare and do, 

Th}' banner always in the van. 
In every station staunch and true — 

A soldier, statesman, scholar, man ! 

The veil so thin, thine e3'e to greet, 

'Twixt mortals and immortals held. 
Through wliicli ye heard God's whispers sweet, 

His pitying hand hath now dispelled. 

The world gives thee its fond farewells ! 

The waves of Elberon moaning straj', 
And love, in tender message, tells, 

"He calmly breathed his life away." 

From lowly cot and palace hall 

Imbued with perfumed breath of Ma}', 

Around th}'' bier the roses fall, 

As ne'er before round mortal clay. 

From ocean wave to mountain height, 

From cabin door to gilded dome, 
Our land is draped in gloom of night. 

As are the heavens when storm-kings roam. 

Nor sta}' our shores the waves of grief. 
But, o'er the wrecks of time swift borne. 

In other lands the}- find relief, 

And mighty millions, melting, mourn. 

Thy name from fame's eternal peaks 

The waves of time shall ne'er efface ; 
Th}' speech shall live, as lives the Greeks' — 

Thou benefactor of thy race. 

For age on age, thy name shall give 

To men an inspiration high ; 
Ye, living, taught us how to live, 

And, dying, taught us how to die. 



IN WINTER. 

When winter robes the mountain white, 
And powders all the trees ; 



54G POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 



When banished are the birds and flowers, 
And silent are the bees ; 

When brooks forget their murmurs sweet, 
And fields their fragrance rare ; 

When creaks the snow beneath the sleighs, 
And biting is the air ; 

When huddled are the herds and flocks. 

And wolves grow over-bold ; 
When frosted is the traveller's beard, 

And piercing is the cold ; — 

'Tis then I dream of orange groves, 

And join the birds in flight 
To where the flowers uplift their cups 

To greet the morning's light. 

Yet rest, O heart, in sweet content. 

The birds will come again. 
And Spring will scatter wide her flowers 

On every hill and plain. 

The seasons all are wisely planned ; 

In sunshine, storm or calm, 
For age on age, the self-same hand 

Will rock the pine and palm. 



Habinia ^attergion Wint^, 

Mi88 Weeks was born in Hopkinton, January 3, 1837. She was educated at Hop- 
Ijiuton Academy, and by a private teacher, a professor of Bowdoin College. She 
has always resided in her native town. 



SPIRIT VOICES. 

Bright fancies hover o'er our dreams to-night, 

Sweet, gentle melodies above us roll, 
Like echoed voices from the world of light. 

To hush the wayward passions of the soul. 

From nature's sacred book we read once more, 
And feel the fevered brow grow cool and calm. 

Bathed in that fount whose water can restore. 
And have for restless ones a soothing balm. 

Whence come these soft, low whispers, in the leaves, 
That thrill the soul with happiness so deep ? 

Are angel voices wafted on the breeze. 
Like the enchanting music of our sleep ? 



LAVINIA PATTEBSON WEEKS. 547 

Blest world of love where comes no earthl}' harm, 
Pure spirit home which sorrow never mars ; 

If these brief glories have such power to charm, 
"What regions those which lie bevoncl the stars ! 



"HOPE ON— HOPE EVER!" 

"Voyager on life's billow^' main !" 

Is thy sky with grief o'ercast, 
Saddening tliee witli secret pain, 

Ghostl}' shadows from the past? 

Does the storm dash wildl}' round thee, 
Deep and dark the breakers lie, 

Till th}- spirit sinks within thee, 
And, despairing, waits to die? 

Long thj- harp has sought the willows, 
Bj' the cold and troubled streams — 

Look be3'ond the surging billows, 
Where the bow of promise gleams. 

Though some hopes no more may brighten, 
Nurse them not in silent grief; 

What though tear-drops sometimes glisten, 
'Tis the soul's most sweet relief. 

Languid spirit, rise and gird thee I 
Leave thy vain and idle dreams ; 

Let the call of duty nerve thee ; 
This alone the past redeems. 

Though thy path may seem the darkest, 
Just beyond this mortal spiiere 

There are souls, to God the dearest. 
Who have suffered keenest here. 

Though the silver chain is broken. 
To be joined on earth no more. 

There's a lioly, blest reunion 
Waits thee on a distant shore. 

Laurels that we prize the highest 
Wreathe the weary brow of pain, 

And the harp whose tones are sweetest 
Echoes oft a sad refrain. 



548 FOETS OF NEW HAMP8HIBE. 

As the stars that shine above thee 
In the darkness of the night, 

So the ills that now attend thee 

Shall but make thy crown more bright. 



ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 

"At break of day God called away the sweetest of earth's singers." 

'Tis summer, and the morning bells ring out their joyous pealing, 
But deepl_y, sadly to our hearts what mournful sounds are stealing ! 
Yes, sad indeed the tidings came, from o'er the distant waters. 
The world of genius mourns to-day one of her peerless daughters. 
Of that' fair clime for which thy heart had beat so sjmipathetic, — 
That land long bound with papal chains, thy bright faith was 

prophetic ; 
For ere thy spirit passed from earth, the despot's power was 

quaking. 
And o'er that land the glorious light of fi'eedom's morn was 

l>reaking. 

Although we may not witness yet the last stronghold defeated, 
Its children shall rejoice at length o'er victory completed. 
Oh, who could teach as thou couldst do in thy poetic trances? 
Or learn the muses' subtle charm and feel its passion glances ? 
Thy harp could strike the loftiest notes, and 3-et so sweetly human. 
That never in thy proudest strains did genius veil the woman. 
The flowers of love within thy heart, though late appear their 

blooming. 
For lying thus so long concealed, retained their fresh perfuming. 
Till thou couldst place them in that shrine more dear than every 

other. 
Thine was the sacred name of wife, the holy one of mother. 
While nuising on thy soul-lit strains our faitli in God grew stronger, 
The heart that felt for others' woe shall solace ours no longer. 

Ye sought to wreathe with lovelj- flowers the cold, stern path of 
duty— 

Now thou art gone where withered joys bloom with immortal 
beaut}'. 

They laid thee where no sounds of earth can rouse thee from 
thy slumbers ; 

They laid thee where no joyous strains can wake thy tuneful 
numbers ; 

They laid thee where the floral train its brightest flower dis- 
closes ; 



EDWABD P. NO WELL. 549 

The}' laid thee gentl}' down to rest amid Etruscan roses, 
Beneath Italia's sunny skies, amid the great and gifted ; 
But ere th}- spirit passed away, the clouds of earth are rifted — 
The joys of purer realms than tliis are mingled with thy dreamings, 
For wiiile with us ye seemed to catch from heaven its bright re- 
veal ings. 

No more for thee are loving friends their anxious vigils keeping. 
For cold beneath the southern cross thy cherished form is sleeping, 
But ever round th}- life so pure, shall sweetest memories cluster — 
The glorious thouglits that tuned th}- lyre shall shine with 

brightest lustre. 
Now that thy spirit, free from earth, on tireless pinions roving, 
Shall gain the "poet's highest goal," the haven of tliy flooring. 
Wh}' should we longer wish thee here, with earthly cares 

enthralling 
The glorious visions of that soul whom God in love was calling? 
We should rejoice that thou art safe beyond the gloomy portal, 
And praise him for the glorious gift that crowns thy name 

immortal. 



Edward P. Nowell was born in Boylston, Vt., February 24, 1837. His early life 
was spent in Portsmouth, and he was" educated there. He went to New York' City 
and became editor of the Americdn Odd Fellow, for seven years, and it increased 
largely in circulation during his ni.niagoment. He was made the official reporter 
of the U. S. Grand Lodge of Odd Fellows for two years. Mr. Nowell sprung from 
Revolutionary stock. His grandfather was an officer in the federal army under 
Washington's immetliate command, and was stationed at Camlnidge, IMass., in the 
house which was the home of the poet Longfellow. His sudden death at Defiance, 
Ohio, April 29, 1S80, was occasioned by an over-dose of chloral, taken to i-elieve se- 
vere pains from wliich he had been suffering the day previous. He was buried at 
Portsmouth. 



IN MEMORIAM. 

GEORGE W. BARNES, DIED AUGUST 31, 1879. 

At Summer's last decline of day, 

At glory-season's dying hour, 
A ransomed spirit winged its waj'' 

To bliss, through Jesus' saving power. 

Though years of weakness and distress 
Had o'er his life their shadows cast, 

Yet with true fortitude ne'erthelcss. 
He bore up bravely to the last. 

And when the solemn summons came, 
His eyes were closed in death serene ; 



SoO POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

While placid face showed that all blame 
Of life had vanished at life's e'en. 

A good man to his rest has gone, 

A husband true as polar star, 
A father whose affection won 

The love of kin that naught could mar. 

A noble friend to all was he ; 

His heart with tenderness was fraught ; 
'Tis said, "He had no enemy" — 

A lesson grand his life has taught. 

In our swift passage to the tomb. 

Let love and friendship rule our days, 

And gladness take the place of gloom, 

While heaven and earth join in our praise ! 

Peace, sweetest peace, be to his soul. 
And fragrant may his memory be ; 

He's fought the fight and gained the goal 
Of unalloyed eternity I 

O mourning hearts ! let light break through 
The sable clouds of grief profound. 

And give to weeping eyes a view 
Of glories that in heaven abound ; 

So that this pilgrimage may show. 
In days to come, a solace sweet 

Of faith, that each at length shall know 
The joy the loved in bliss to meet ! 



3Bt)toavtr E; Hantr. 

Rev. Edward A. Rand is a native of Portsmouth, born April 5, 1837. He fitted for 
college at tlie Portsmouth High School, and entered Bowdoin in 1853, graduating 
In 1857. In 1863 he graduated at Bangor Theological Seminary, and was ordained 
over the Congregational church in Amesbury, Mass., in ISUo. He was settled over 
the B Street Congregational Church in South Boston, Mass., in 1867, remaining 
until 1876. Dccliniug the call of the Congregational Church in Franklin, Mass., 
where he preached for some time, he returned to South Boston, and, in the autumn 
of 1879, passed into the Protestant Episcopal Church, assuming care of Christ 
Church, Hyde Park, Mass., in 1880. He now I'esides in Watertowu, Mass. 



SING, BONNY BIRD ! 

Sing, bonny bird, exultant sing! 

Make field and heavens ring ! 
A bugle rich and clear your voice, 

Thrice welcome, birdie, sing ! 



EDWABD A. BAND. 551 



For, lo ! your song brings sounds to me 

From lands you saw afar, 
Where, just above the sky's bhic rim, 

Soft shone the northern star. 

I hear the breeze through orange-groves 
Breathe low and hushed and calm, 

Then die away in echoes sweet, 
As dies in church a psalm. 

I hear the dirge of milder seas 

Along their shores of sand, 
A wail for those who sailed away 

But ne'er sailed back to land. 

And then I stand by deserts gray, 

I look across those seas, 
When lo, above raj* head, the palm 

Mild murmurs in the breeze. 

Then sta}', blithe bird, and sing again ! 

Fold, fold 3-our eager wings ! 
For in the warbles of your voice 

The land far southward sings. 



THE SHIP IN THE SUNSHINE. 

Across the sands, strange darkness fell ; 

The sun had dipped beneath a cloud ; 
The waves now sullenly swept on. 

The surf fast whitened to a shroud. 

And shadows, too, fell on our hearts. 
When, lo ! beyond the waves' dark run, 

We saw a ship far out to sea — 
A ship slow sailing in the sun ! 

O ship far out to sea, sail on ! 

Some heart upon a darkened shore 
Will see with joy th}' whitening sails. 

And fear the deepening gloom no more. 

O souls that find in Christ the light. 
Sail on across life's shadowed sea ! 

For many will take heart b}' you, 
And cry, "The Sun will come to me !" 



552 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

RAIN ON THE ROOF. 

Is that a step upon the stairs, 
That makes its echo in the night? 

Not that : the rain creeps down the roof; 
I hear its footfall hushed and light. 

I do not wonder that I seemed 
To hear soft footsteps on the stairs ; 

I've fancied so before, and oft 
Amid the silence of m}' prayers. 

I cannot see, but fancy still 

My sainted child looks in my face, 

And think the shadow of a wing 

Makes heavenl}' twilight in the place. 

How oft within her ej'es' blue depths 
I looked as down some shaded aisle 

That into heaven ran afar : 
God onl}^ let me look awhile ! 

The bitter rain has dripped but twice 
Since last I heard her little feet 

Drop music all adown the stairs ; 

And now — the}' press the golden street. 

Such music as the rain-drops make, 
Those passing feet made ever}' day ; 

One eve the}' stopped, and then I knew 
That they had climbed the heavenly way, 



POND-LILIES. 

All through the day the lilies float. 
Swayed gently by the drowsy streams, 

As tired thoughts in sleep obey 

The changing impulse of our dreams. 

Through waters dead, who thought such life 
Was creeping up the tangled stems, 

To burst in bloom of snow and gold, 
And sprinkle wide those floral gems? 

In those dark depths, who thought such light 
In folded bud was thus concealed. 

To open into stars, with rays 

As pm'e as those by night revealed? 



FHANCIS OliMOND FRENCH. 553 

Take heart, faint soul ! and stay the grief 
In whose sad presence man e'er weeps. 

Up through Ufe's dark and shaded depths, 
Some bloom of beauty CA-er creeps. 

Some rays of light, in darkness hid, 

Wait God's appointed, better day, 
To break in stars wliose peaceful beams 

Shall shine around our darkened wa}'. 



J^ranris ©rmontr jFrcndj. 

F. O. French, a son of Benjamin B. and Elizabeth G. Frcncli, was born in Ches- 
ter, Sept. 12, 1837. He was educatcil at I'liillips E.veter Academy and Harvard Col- 
lege, graduating wUli the class of 1857. He studied law at Cambridge, where he 
w.as librarian of the Law School ; was admitted to the bar in New York in 1860 and 
practised there, and later in Kxeter. He was deputy collector of customs at 
Boston, from 18(i3 to 18(j,t, when he became a banker. In'l870 he went to New York 
city, where he is engaged in the same business. Specimens of his father's poetry 
have already been given. 



EXTRACT 

From a poem delivered at Class Day, Harvard College, 1857. 

Yet surel}' this is not an hour for gloom. 
This dawn of life that's opening so bright ! 
The veiy clouds a rosy hue assume ; 
Let owls and bats hide thein before the light ; 
And, by my troth, it is a glorious sight 
When gallant 3'outh his armor buckles on. 
And bears him forth so boldly to the fight, 
As though the AMctoiy were already won. 
And half victorious is ere yet the fight's begun ! 

A trumpet sounds, a heavy draw-bridge falls ; 
A cortege, gleaming in its rich arra}-. 
Comes slowly from an ancient castle's walls 
That in the morning sunlight seem less gra}' ; 
Tlie steeds step eagerly along the way, 
('hamp on their bits and snuff the morning air ; 
Their riders, calm, yet eager for the fra}', 
Demurely sit as though beset bv care. 
Scowl down their inward jo}', and gloomy faces wear. 

Their armor flashes in the morning sun 
As though its temper not a glance could brook ; 
Tlieir pennons flaunt defiance, every one. 
Their lances have a fierce and angry look ; — 
I fear me little thought the riders took 



■I 



554 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 



Of dust and blood with which they should be sprent, 
When from the dripping leaves the dews they shook, 
And rain in mimic showers was o'er them sent, 
As 'neath the drooping boughs and green-wood trees they went ! 

These men, in warlike harnesses complete, 
Unmoved their features, nor with outward pride, 
Save up their vigor for the battle's heat. 
Yet firmly seated in their saddles ride. 
Trusting their fortune to their weapons tried ; 
On anj' crisis resolute and bold, 
Calmly i\\Q.y wait and let the eve decide 
Whether they sup, or lifeless lie and cold ; 
Thus through the warlike world their onward course they hold. 

Years told b}^ hundreds have filled all the moats, 
Draw-bridge and turret have been long o'erthrown, 
No more the broken walls shall hear the notes 
So loud and clear from warder's trumpet blown ; 
They echo now the owl's shrill cry alone : 
And yet, with greater reverence, I behold 
Those walls held dear to hearts in every zone, 
O'er which two centuries have already rolled,* 
Since, on a young crusade, their gates did first unfold. 

No stir, no clangor tells our coming strife, •*■ 
Nor armorer's hammer keeps a busy din, 
Yet earnestl}^ the accoutering of life 
Is going on, all noiseless!}', within ; 
The trembling youth o'er anxious to begin 
The exciting, active scenes of his career. 
Where strength of arm and skill shall surely win, 
Goes through the daily task year after year, 
While elders guide, or prove with scrutiny severe. 

A little month, f— again the gates shall ope, 
And from the portals, lo ! a comely train 
Of vigorous men, in panoply of hope. 
Armed with strong wills and fortitude 'gainst pain, — 
With which, or truce with fortune to obtain. 
Or to her venomed shafts prove obdurate, — 
Come forth to battle in a life's campaign, 
Enthusiastic, in their strength elate. 
And with unyielding prowess conquer even fate. 

* The first class graduated at Harvard College in 1643. 
t Commencement Day occurs one month after Class Day. 



FBANCIS ORMOND FBENCH. 555 

E'en now I seem to hear the scorner's voice, 
Ah'cady in mj' ears it cries me hush, 
"All is a dream that thus makes life rejoice, 
To wake in terror when 'gainst life n'Ou brush ; 
This prowess comes as comes the youthful blush ; 
This picture lair, like frost-work on the pane, 
Dissolves in tears with morning's earhest flush ; 
Enthusiastic \-outh, your strength is vain. 
Awake to what is real, for all you see ^'ou feign." 

Back, back thou tempter, let the truth alone, 
Nor, by false lights deceived, trj- to deceive ; 
To weak submission man is ever prone. 
Let then the coward heart in fate believe. 
And seek, before it comes, a cause to grieve. 
Better the boldness that knows no defeat ; 
By such alone does man success achieve, 
And so his greed}' fortunes oft ma}- cheat, 
Or, if at length borne down, his fate shall bravel}' meet. 

Greatness was never made a slave to fate, 
True ever to itself and to its aim ; 
Fortune or first or last will on it wait, 
And bear it onward steadil}' to fame ; 
Then will all ages reverence its name. 
Or should the present da}' its worth contest. 
Yet shall the future recognize the claim. 
Nor was a Socrates alone oppressed ; 
Bright name ! by one age damned, and by all others blest. 

And so full oft the fortunes of each one, 
That seem so fickle, and nowise secure. 
Are in his keeping did he never shun 
The arduous duty that would make them sure. 
Keep, then, thy youthful valor bright and pure, 
And to the promptings of tby soul be true ; — 
'Tis AV^isdom's course — how pitiful, how poor, 
Who yields him up to every gawd in view. 
Lets slip his early faith such chances to pursue ! 

No, it were better Hope and Faith should lead, 
And sometimes bear their follower astray, 
Than that, deserted in the hour of need, 
In following Fortune's ever dubious ray, 
By that to be left naked in the way, 
Helpless, and hopeless, and o'crcome at last ; 



556 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

While to the other brighter grows each day, 
And when upon Ufe's verge at length he's cast, 
Light marks the path before, and all his cares are past. 

Yet when the 3'oung alumnus leaves these halls, — 
A learned man, perhaps, in freshmen's e_yes, 
While man}' honest folks without the walls 
In all that can be known believe him wise, — 
On every hand how great is his surprise 
As the world's facts unveil them to his sight, 
Or stern and hostile in his pathway rise ; 
Yet start not, for was ever picture bright 
That had not shadows, too, as well as lines of light? 

First, on the threshold, what a shock to find, 
In all that he has given ^-ears to gain. 
The utter ignorance of the common mind ! 
Philosophy' has been to useless pain. 
And half our best loved authors lived in vain ; 
8ages and scholars, gentle, good, and wise, — 
All are unknown, all of the gifted train : 
He turns and finds, when wondering what they prize, 
That bread or broadcloth most the vacancy supplies. 

And bitter is the disappointment, when, 
As to the stage of life you are brought nigher. 
You find so few of those ideal men, 
Whose lives should teach us there is something higher 
Than bread, beer, beef, soft couches, rich attire — 
These be the gods to whom the people bend ; — 
Build thou no altars to them, nor in ire 
Cast from your hands the truth you hold, dear friend ; 
Break not the tablets where God's hand the law hath penned. 

And then the freedom that one hopes is his I 
AVhen, harried by this discipline no more. 
Should he in trivial things e'er prove amiss, 
No carping scrutiny will vex him sore — 
Alas ! i-estraints far harsher than before 
On every side with tliorns his pathway flank ; 
Still, after tea, boards talk his conduct o'er, 
And scandal still plucks at his social rank, 
Till Mrs. Grundy's feared e'en more than Tutor Blank. 

Forewarned, so walk that none of these shall wound ; 
The good be glad in, evils boldly face, 
And ever true in all we do be found ; 
In our own actions our ideals trace, 



DAVID OBAHAM ADEE. 557 

Then, as thej-'re true and lovely, lend the}' grace ; 

Earnest ahvay for manly dignity. 
Yet never scorn the lowliest of tlie race. 
And. humble in our little worth, to l)e 
E'er without pride toward those who have less store than we. 

Yet wh}- at such an hour anticipate 
That future which One Prescience onl}' knows, 
Tiie complex plan that ignorance calls fate, 
Where man in ever}' act the shuttle throws 
That bears the varied woof of joys and woes, 
Till the whole pattern is at length complete ! 
Y''et this we would not, if we could, disclose ; 
Who would not from Fate's magic glass retreat. 
As in dark rooms we shrink our mirrored selves to meet ! 

Na}', ere the moment passes, while we still, 
Though on the threshold, fondly linger here, 
We turn to those fair scenes we love so well — 
That theme, however old, yet ever dear. 
That falls with spring-like freshness on the ear — 
These, throughout life, our sympathies enchain, 
And start in aged eyes the joyous tear, 
As memories wake that slumbering long have lain : 
To these, in parting now, I dedicate my strain. 



Dabiti Sraijam ^tice. 

Davifl G. Adee was born iu Boston, Mass., in 1837. lie was cdurateil at the Xew 
York University, and in 18G0 was admitted to the practiec of law in New York city. 
In 1S70 he travelled in Europe, Ifussia, Norway and r>weden. On his return lie 
ajrain resided in New York, until 1S78, when he removed to Wasliingtou, I). C. 
For ten years past he has spent his suinniers and autumns at North Conway, where 
most of his poetry has been written. 



AT ROME. 

As Pius passed I held my breath, 
My heart stood still as if in death. 
W h}' should an unbeliever feel 
Such awe and superstition steal ? 
A kind old man with silvery hair 
And face sweet with religion rare, 
A smile so gentle, pure and calm. 
It seemed to sprinkle licavenl}- balm. 
Methought, it is not all alone 
Because he sits the papal throne ; 
It is not that he reigns a king 
And wears the sacred signet-ring ; 



558 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

Or that he is the father here 

To chide the sin and dry the tear ; 

Or that he wields the holy kej's 

For penitents upon their knees : 

Not these the reasons, right or wrong, 

1 trembled as he rode along, 

In chariot rich with gems and gold, 

To bless the children of his fold, 

But that the heart of human kind 

Weary of groping, faint and blind, 

Despairing of the unseen power 

Coming to earth in evil hour 

To speak to prayer, to smile on praise, 

To cheer the faithful's wistful gaze, 

Had clothed this presence with all good 

To give to sinners saintly food, 

To set before the senses' soul 

Comfort and consolation's dole. 

Two thousand 3'ears have given place 

Since men have looked upon God's face, 

And the soul yearns for something real 

To represent the rapt ideal. 

If that mankind have sought to give 

A form to goodness while they live. 

Will not the One supreme above 

Reward their longing with His love? 

Thus, as I viewed the emblem there, 

An aureole seemed to glint the air, 

My spirit thrilled in blent accord 

With earth's great type of heaven's lord. 



FOUR PHASES. 

Golden ringlets, hazel eyes. 
Deep and dream}-, fixed afar ; 

Thoughts that to the zenith rise ; 
Life the heavens and he a star : 

This the boyish poet's rapture 

P^re the hours his spirit capture. 

Chestnut locks about the brow ; 

Love and beauty ripe and real ; 
Love, a faith the heart to bow, 

Beaut}', a divine ideal : 
These the poet's manhood gladden 
Ere the years his nature sadden, 



HENB Y AMES BL OD. 559 



Silveiy graj' the clustering curls ; 

Looming clouds in autumn sk}- ; 
Youthful gems but ghostl}' pearls ; 

Beauty dead and love a lie : 
This the poet's fatal after, 
Bitter tears or lightsome laughter. 

Snowy hair and frosty beard ; 

Kindly glance and clieery saying ; 
Sweet the phantom once he feared 

While the soul was still a-Maying. 
Poet, chant celestial measures ; 
Rapt the realm that holds thy treasures. 



SHELLEY. 

Soul-inspired skeptic and great earthl3'-born ! 

To thee all nature was a rapturous dream — 

Sk}-, summer, life, love, and the poet's theme, 
The silver of the sea, the golden morn. 
The sunset, and the fields which flowers adorn, — 

These were all worshipped with the glowing gleam 

Of ardent adoration ; the bright beam 
Of mortal sainted bj- the spirit worn. 
And soaring toward the stars. Thou, reft away 

From beaut}' and the balm}- breath of rest, 
Baskest beneath a warmer, welcomer ray 

In the glad realm of bards supremely blest — 
Hunt, Byron, Coleridge, Keats — in glorious da}-, 

'Mong whom thy name and fame is grandest, best. 



liKntg Ernes lijlooti. 

n. A. Blood, a native of Temple, was boru al)oiit 1S40. ITe is a prartuate of 
Partmoutli College. After leaving College lie spent a few vears in teacliinij school, 
wben he acceptecl a situation in the Department of State at Washington, 1). C. He 
Is the author of a history of liis native town. A volume of lus poems, ami another 
of dramas, liave been stereotyped, but as j'et arc unpublished. From the former 
the poems here given have been selected. Specimens of his poetry are found in 
Bcveral collections. Epes Sargent, in his "Cyclopedia of British and American 
J'oetry," highly compliments Mr. Blood's poems, and regrct.s that his volumes are 
uni)Ublidhed. 

THE CHIMNEY-NOOK. 

Oh, how much comfort is there in the glow 

Of a rosy fire in winter, 

AVhen each stem and stick and splinter 
Burns all the brighter for the winds that blow. 
Then high or low the walls, they wear a joyous look, 



560 POETS OF NEW HAMP8HIBE. 

Nor is anything more cheery, 
When the winter wind sounds dreary, 
Than sitting by the fire, within the chimne^'-nook. 

Bring Red-heart Oak, the tyrant of the wood ; 

Bring liim hither in a dead-cart, 

Lop liis limbs, tear out his red-heart, 
And throw it to this hungry fire for food. 
Bring Tall-Pine, whose old head long since the crows forsook 

Tall-Pine, he is in his dotage. 

But his head shall boil our pottage. 
While we sit here and laugh beside our chimney-nook. 

Old Tall-Pine, you were old when I was young, 

On your head the rains had drifted, 

Through your locks the snows had sifted 
A hundred years ere my first song was sung ; 
Your foot was gouty grown, your head with palsy shook, 

But your heart possessed ^'ou lightl}^, 

And you stood 3'our sentry nightly, 
While I sat here and dozed beside m^' chimney-nook. 

Do you remember, Tall-Pine, years ago, 
' When I rambled in my childhood 

Through 3'on solitar}' wild-wood, 
And climbed your high top for the callow crow? 
Hurrah for those old days when you and I partook 

Snow and rain and hail together. 

Little thinking this cold weather 
Would bring us face to face beside my chimne3--nook. 

But now the wind is louder than before ; 

With a wnld demoniac laughter 

lie is running down the rafter ; 
I will not talk nor dally with you more : 
For that you were my friend, some pity had me strook ; 

But the night is growing colder, 

And my spirit waxes bolder 
To have you keep me warm beside my chimney-nook. 

Then lay his head down crowned with all its cones ; 

It shall be a bed of roses 

Where mine ancient friend reposes ; 
Peace to his ashes, rest unto his bones : 
Now, bravo, Tall-Pine, for your aged pate ne'er took, 

Since the spring-time of your story, 

Such a lustre, such a glorj-, 
As this I see it wear beside my chimney-nook. 



HEXE Y AMES BLOOD. 50 1 

Beneath this mansion is a cellar old, 

"Where there bydeth," sa3-s tradition, 

"A moste wondrous w3-se magician. 
Who hydeth hym in bottels grene with molde." 
A candle's ra}- at night, this fellow cannot brook ; 

We will go into the cellar 

With our lights and blind the fellow, 
Then bring him to his wits beside our chirane^'-nook. 

Can you believe me ? Shakespeare knew him well ; 

Jonson loved him as his brother. 

So i' faith did many another 
Most potent bard who felt "liys mightye spell." 
Ere this magician come, hang po thick on the hook ; 

We will never close our lashes 

Till Old Tall-Pine burns to ashes ; 
But laugh here all night long beside our chimnej'-nook. 

Then let the jolly, motley Avorld wag on 

To an age of baser metal ; 

So it upsets not our kettle, 
Give thanks for this and ask for fatter brawn ; 
We shall get through our day, somehow, by hook or crook ; 

Be our purse however slender, 

Only give us fire and fender. 
We shall not lack for fun beside our chimney-nook. 

Oh, how much comfort is there in the glow 

Of a rosy fire in winter. 

When each stem and stick and splinter 
Burns all the brighter for the winds that blow. 
Then high or low the walls they wear a joj-ous look ; 

Nor is anything more cheer}'. 

When the winter wind sounds dreary, 
Than sitting by the fire within our chimney-nook. 



JEANNETTE. 

It is no wonder I should be 

More sad in pleasant weather, 
For on a golden day like this 

We strolled the fields together : 
Oh, never lived a maid more dear 

In everybody's praises ! — 
Jeannctte was picking buttercups 

And I was picking daisies. 



562 POETS OF NEW HAMP8HIBE. 

Her beaut}' and her grace, it seemed, 

The saddest heart might ralh'. 
But though she gently led my steps 

Through all the quiet valle}^ 
The words of love I tried to speak 

Dissolved in empty phrases ; 
And so she pulled her buttercups 

And so I picked ni}' daisies. 

But when she C03'l3' raised my chin, 

And with a charming flutter 
Held up her golden prize beneath, 

And asked — if I loved butter ! — 
Oh, then, in words that blossomed forth 

Like flowers from heavenl}' vases, 
I told her how the buttercups 

Were loved by all the daisies. 

She often visits me in dreams. 

And then, in sumptuous vision, 
"We walk through meadows full of light, 

We roam the Fields Elysian ; 
And side by side we loiter on 

Through all the starry mazes ; 
She picks immortal buttercups 

And I, celestial daisies. 

Where now so peacefully she lies 

Pale evening loves to linger, 
And morning comes in tears, to touch 

Her grave with rosy finger. 
And ever}' June that rambles by, 

A moment turns and gazes. 
Then lays his offering on the sod 

In buttercups and daisies. 

l'envoi. 

Full well I know she loves me still, 

For oft, through sk}^}' portals, 
She gives to me the sweetest smile 

That angels have for mortals ; 
And evermore to guide n\y steps 

Through all the world's mizmazes, 
Wears on her breast the light of stars 

In buttercups and daisies. 



HENR Y A3IES BL OB. 563 

THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR. 

Alas ! alas ! the Old Year lies dead ! 

And I am the Wind, the harper hoary, 
That chanted his requiem over liis head, 

And told to the hills his sorrowful storj*. 
EA^ery thing comes at last to an end ; 

But to die on the moor, without pillow or litter, 
The desolate moor, with never a friend, 

Not one, — my God ! it is bitter ! bitter ! 

bead ! dead ! So ! so ! All over at last ! 

And he died of old age, as he said he should die, 
With the poor old harper alone to cast 

One glance on the spot where his ashes lie. 
I leant o'er his vast and shadowy form, 

And raised up his shaggy and grizzled head, 
And felt if his grand old heart was warm ; 

But alas for my friend he was dead ! he was dead ! 

Oh, pity, pity ! I am so blind. 

So old and blind, that I scarcely know 
What house this is, nor am able to find 

A bit of a pathway here in the snow. 
So blind, that although I anxiously peer 

• Full high and low through the shadows of night, 
I can only just guess from the things that I hear. 

Which of your windows is alight. 

It is easy to see, it is easy to see 

You do not love an old man like mo ; 
It matters but little whom he implores, 

On the poor old harper tliey shut their doors. 
But I will not call you unkind in there, 

For I know I am crabbed and old and wheez}- ; 
And I carr}' in with me too mucli cold air. 

My cloak is so large and my cape is so breezy. 

I know not whether 3-ou loved the Old Year, 

But I know a poor har[)er who loved him more 
Than even his own sweet harp, I fear, 

Wliich he strikes in vain at your openless door. 
With the snow so white for his glistening shroud. 

And the night so black for his funeral pall. 
Ah me, that sorrow should not he loud ! 

Ah me, that sorrow is not for all ! 



564 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

How well I remember the good Old Year, 

Wlien, a barefooted boy, he sat under the pines, 
This beautiful antique harp to hear, 

As I grandly chanted mine ancient lines. 
For though I say it, this harp, I say. 

Has more weird music about the strings 
Than all the new-fangled things they play 

In convent halls or the courts of kings. 

Your pardon, good folk, for I never came here 

To chant my own praise ; but I came to lament 
The loss of my friend whom I held so dear, 

And who carried my heart with him where he went. 
Alas ! alas ! m}' old friend lies dead ! 

And I am the wind, the harper hoar}', 
That chanted his requiem over his head. 

And told to the hills his sorrowful stor}' ! 

Gone ! gone ! forever and ever gone ! 

Would that I, too, might come to my rest ! 
But I cannot die, — I must ever go on, 

Weary and wildered, a thing unblest. 
Hark ! l^ear you not the voice of the sea. 

Now shrill and loud, now soft and low? 
It is calling to me ! It is calling to me ! 

It says I must go ; it says I must go. 



THE INVISIBLE PIPER. 

Hark ! the invisible piper plays ! 

You will scarcely go home, I think, to-night, 
For your horse will cast his shoes in the ways, 

And you will follow a fire-fly light. 
Oh, he is the piper that never was seen 
Any two days or nights between ; 
But plenty there be who declare he looks 
Like the figure of Punch in the picture-books, 
Or a wide-mouthed, red-nosed, rollicking clown, 
With his face all laughter from chin to crown. 

PuflQng his cheeks and piping like mad. 

He will march through autumn, the motley fellow. 
And the leaves cannot see him, though ever so glad. 

But they all will follow him, red and yellow. 
Not a farmer but misses his oaten straws 

And calls on the piper, aloud, to stay ; 
But he scarcely will get the words out of his jaws 

Ere the piper is up and off and away. 



HENRY AMES BLOOD. 5C5 

When the winter is come, and the nights grow late, 
And the old crone leans at the kitchen grate, 
In solemn wise, and mumbles her stories 
Till the urchins make big eyes, then glories 
The piper to blow and to blow, and his tone 
Those urchins think is the desolate moan 
Of the wounded knight in the legend old, 
Which the skinny old crone has just now told ; 
And but half the}' believed her marvellous tale 
Till the piper sounded his notes of bale ; 
And it is very queer how the piper and she 
AYill cheat little children two times out of three. 

He comes up at night from the dreary wold 

And plays round the chimneys and gables old, 

And flits in and out through the haunted hall 

Till the family portraits dance on the wall. 

But most he loves in midsummer eves 

To answer her plaint when P^clio grieves ; 

Or chance on lovers who kiss and play 

In the shade of an arbor hid awa}". 

Ko better piper e'er piped on a straw 

To the king of the forest, the bold outlaw ; 

And no better piper e'er piped on a reed 

To the elves and the fairies that skip o'er the mead ; 

And no better piper e'er piped on a quill 

To the shepherds that dance 'neuth the loud-bleating hill. 

Oh, he is the piper for all and for all ; 

For he pipes to Maggie and he pipes to Mall, 

He pipes for the cottage and he pipes for the hall ; 

He pipes for merry and he pipes for sad. 

He pipes for sorry and he i)ipes for glad. 

And be you a mistress, or be you a lover, 

Sour be the sorrel, or sweet be the clover, 

There is no better music the wide world over. 



YEARNINGS. 

How charming it would be if 3'ou and I 
Could shake off every clog which Circumstance, 
Our base old dungeon-keeper, has hung round 
The natural freedom of our God-made limbs. 
And so go wandering about the earth 
At our own pleasure, till we chose to die ! 
I half believe that somewhere in the far, 



566 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Tumultuous rush of the earth-wasting years, 

1 must have led a heavenlj' condor's life, 

And so, full many a time, from the briglit centre 

Of the great dome that roofs the sea and laud, 

Have looked on this revolving pageantry ; 

For, not a da}' goes b}- but m}- blood burns 

To roam at will the vast and glorious rondure 

Of this fine world ; to saunter up and down 

From end to end of all its gorgeous valleys, 

Its rolling rivers, its majestic hills, 

Its fiery deserts, its wide wastes of ocean. 

But it should be with some dear bosom friend, 
With whom I might be talking half the time ; 
Now in high strain about the unknown land. 
Now marvelling to find upon all things. 
Whether in earth or air, upon the wave, 
The tree, the rock, the sand, the blade of grass, 
Still the great stamp of the Reliable ; 
And both of us so much at one with nature, 
We should admire the very heat and dust, 
The ver^' snow and hail, the wind and rain ; 
F'earing not even the hungrj' howls of beasts, 
The horrible unreason of the brutes, 
■ Nor an}' enterprise of desperate men : 
Knowing full well that he who builds his life 
On pain and sorrow, builds on adamant ; 
While from foundations deepest laid in earth 
Must spring the highest turrets into heaven. 

So then it would be nothing but a pleasure 
To toil and sweat along the dust}' roads ; 
To drag our weary limbs from clitf to clifl^; 
To poise ourselves upon some hair-breadth edge, 
And breathless creep above the pits of danger ; 
For what should all the perils of the journey 
Weigh in the balance with its hours of joy, 
Its blissful commerce of two loving friends, 
Its eagle views from every towering peak. 
Its glorious intercourse with the. great God, 
Who made and lives in all. 

Oh, I believe 
Our fate will yet go wandering with us 
All over the green earth in this great wise ! 
* I only pray it may be before Death, 
That kind, well-meaning chemist, shall drain off 



LEANDER 8. COAX. 567 

From our dear souls our sweet infirmities, — 
As we presume he will, since without them 
How shall we know what highest pleasure is ! 
And yet wh}- doubt that all will not be best? 
And wh}- suppose that even Death can bring us 
Where toil and pain shall walk with us no more? 

Oh, certainh", if we should live so long. 

Till heaven has sprinkled our good heads with gray, 

Why not give up this ignominious life, 

Surrender these pale comforts which our age 

And time now lavish most on meanest men. 

Distribute all our goods among the poor. 

And after, seek our fortunes through the earth? 

Our costume should be suited to the cUme, 

And we would carr}' in our loving hearts 

The flowers of all the creeds, scarce knowing which 

Were loveliest ! And all our walk by day 

Should be in ever-changing atmospheres 

Of speech and silence ; while as night came down. 

And the good stars drew near us, and unveiled 

To tell us we might sleep since they would watch, 

Then seeking out the best place we could find. 

Our bodies unto cold insensible. 

And unto fear our souls, we should lie down, 

And the soft petals of our ej'es would close, 

And all the heavens would watch us while we slept. 



Ecanticr S- ^oan. 

Rev. Leander S. Coan was born in Exeter, Maine, Nov. IT, 1837. ITe began the 
study of law, but turned his attention to religion, and determined to preach the 
"Gospel of the Blessed Master." He graduated at the Theological Seminary at 
Bangor, Me., in 1S02, and was ordained, as a Congregational iniuiister, over" the 
church in Amherst, Me. In 1861 his long pent-up pati'iotisin burst the hounds that 
had confined him, and he enlisted as a iirivate in the Sixty-lirst Massachusetts Vol- 
unteers, with the promise that, when the liattalion of six companies was increased 
to a full regiment, entitling them to a chaplain, he should have that position. But 
till the close of the war the regiment was never filled. lie acted throughout as 
chaplain but was unctmimissioned. After the war he preached at Boothbay, Me., 
three j'cars; Brownvillc, Me., three years; Bradford, Me., six months; Somerset 
and Fall River, Mass., three years, and at Alton this state about five years. He 
died in September, 1879. A volume of his poems, which has had a great sale, was 
published in 1880. 



THE SAME OLD FLAG. 

Bring out the old campaign colors. 
Hoist the old banner high. 

With starry blue and crimson, 
Clear in the autumn sk}', — 

The same old flag that in 'sixty, 



568 POETS OF NEW HAMP8HIBE. 



And later in 'sixty-one, 
We hailed with tears of devotion, 
When the skies were heavy and dun. 

We followed it in its peril, 

That its folds might know no stain ; 
And now that dishonor threatens 

We rail}' around it again. 
We perilled our lives for its honor ; 

Can we not give watchful toil, 
That no fanatic delusion 

Its unsullied lustre soil? 

When the old world's socialist convicts 

Hiss our fanatic hate, 
Assailing our free republic 

As they would a tjrannous state, 
We will rally around the standard, 

We will lift the old banner high, 
Will vote and toil for its honor. 

As once we were ready to die. 

Defending now with the ballot, 

As we did with the bayonet then. 
With cordons of steel and iron. 

In the hands and hearts of men, 
We will give no vote to dishonor 

The sheen of its starry fold. 
That shall shame when in the future 

The deeds of to-day are told. 

We fought disunion and treason 

As loj'al freemen then ; 
And now dishonor and folly 

In the hearts of misguided men. 
Though the load to be borne is heavier 

Than we in the darkness saw. 
We may not refuse without breaking 

The sacred aegis of law. 

'Tis the fate of war and the nation 

Cursed by a traitor's crew ; 
Though they were false to their pledges, 

For us it remained to be true. 
We stand by the bond, our honor 

And safety bind us there ; 
Of breaking the 'nation's pledges 

It behooves us well to beware. 



ABBA GO OLD WOOLS 02^. 569 

WATER LILIES. 

Our little white lily has fallen ; 

It dropped on a barren strand, 
And floated awa}' on the water, 

Beyond the reach of m^' hand. 

Into the mists and the darkness. 

Far away from the clamorous strife, 
It floats, and I may not reach it, — 

My little white lily of life. 

Oh, the little white face of mj^ darling ! 

How it shone with a light serene, 
As, cleaving the turbulent river. 

Its tremulous light was seen ! 

And now the mists rise in the darkness, 

And the black spra}- dashes afar, 
But flashing and white in the distance 

That little face shines as a star. 

Though the waves of that river are fearful. 

And the storm on its bosom is wild. 
There is floating, untouched by terror. 

The face of a little child. 



Mrs. Woolson is the daughter of the historian, Hon. Wm. Goold, of Windliani, 
Maine ; in which tOAvn she was born April 30, 1S3S. Her early life was passed in 
Portland; and she was educated in tlie Higli .School of that city. In 18.")0 she be- 
came the wife of its principal, .Mr. ."Moses Woolson— an eminent teacher, who sub- 
sequently held a similar pn^ition in lliuli ScIkioIs oI' (inciiinati, ISoston, and Con- 
cord, N. 11. In the latter city, which is her husband's native place, Mrs. Woolson 
has resided for the past ten years, f^hc is the author of three volumes, entitled 
Woman in American Society, Dj-es.i Reform and Droicsing amonf/ Books, all pub- 
lisheii ))y Roberts IJrothers of Boston. Of late years she has jtiven courses of 
lectures on English Literature in convection xrith liiatorji in IJoston, Washington, 
New York and other cities. Her poetry consists of fugitive pieces, not yet collect- 
ed into a volume. 

TO A PANSY. 

Prcs-^ed smoothly in these printed leaves, 

O faded flower of years agone, 
Thou knowest naught of misty eves 

Or thri.lling light of morn. 

The mould where once thy beautj* grew 
Has nourished many a later flower ; 



570 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

And skies still widen, clear and blue, 
Above that garden bower. 

But thou, alone of all thy race. 
Hast felt no touch of chill decay, 

And wearest an immortal grace 
While summers glide away. 

Where dew-drops trembled, soft and bright, 
A tear now falls from saddened eyes ; 

And kisses burn, where beams of light 
Smote fierce from noon-day skies. 

Not roses red that ope to-day. 

Fresh blowing where the winds are ffee, 

Nor tangled lilies, wet with spray. 
Can win my heart from thee. 

For one whose feet no longer tread 
Through leaf}^ ways in gardens fair, 

Once paused and bent her lovel}^ head 
Above thy beauty- rare ; 

And praised thy tissues finely wove. 
In that dear voice that nevermore 

The winds may bear me, though I rove 
By plain and sea-girt shore. 

Forever dark with velvet glooms. 
And golden-hearted as the dawn, 

I still shall love thee when the blooms 
Of coming years are gone. 



THE DEPARTING YEAR. 

He came, he brought us meadow-bloom and grasses. 
And bird-songs carrolling the heavens through ; 

Now not a green blade flutters as he passes, 
Nor stays one thrush to hymn a sweet adieu. 

Dry, rattling stalks and clumps of frozen rushes 
Are all that tremble to his parting tread ; 

From cottage windows where the home-light flushes 
No face looks out, no last farewell is said. 

Bare are the walls where blushed his garden roses, 
And bare the tree-boughs swa3'ing o'er the lawn ; 

The grape-hung lattice not a leaf discloses. 
And no late watcher sighs that he is gone : — 



ABBA GOOLD WOOLSON. 571 



Gone with the beaut}- of the summer morning, 
The dream}' lovehness of vanished days, 

The sky's soft glory and the earth's adorning, 
June's rosy light and Autumn's mellow haze. 

I begged, when first he shone with lavish splendor, 
A prince triumphant come to rule his own, 

That he some token of his grace would render 
To me, a suppliant, on his bounty thrown. 

He bent and proffered, without stint or measure, 
The utmost that my daring words could crave ; 

With full arms closing round each hoarded treasure 
My lips forgot to bless the hand that gave. 

He made the evening glad, tlie sunrise golden. 
And all existence richer that he came ; 

Yet scarcely finds my spirit, thus beholden, 
The time to weave this chaplet to his name. 

kingly giver, old and unattended, 

The world's poor gratitude is not for thee ; 

It leaves unsung the reign so near)}' ended, _ 
And turns to hail the king that is to be. 



GOOD NIGHT. 

sweet my Love, the hour is late. 
The moon goes down in silver state, 
As here alone I watch and wait ; 

Though far from thee, ni}' lips repeat 
In whispers low — Good night, my sweet ! 

The house is still ; but o'er the gloom 
Of starlit gardens faint with bloom 

1 lean from out my darkened room, 
And only hear the roaming breeze 
Move softly in the lilac-trees. 

Somewhere beneath these gracious skies 
My bonny Love a-dreaming lies, 
AVith slumber brooding in her eyes : 
Go seek her, hapi)y wind so free. 
And kiss her folded hands for me ; 

Across this dome of silent air, 

On tides of floating ether, bear 

To where she sleeps my whispered pra3er :— 



572 POETS OF NEW HAMP8HIBE. 

The da}' has brought the night forlorn, 
God keep thee, little Love, till dawn 1 

While life is dear, and love is best, 
And 3'oung moons drop adown the west. 
My lone heart, turning to its rest, 
Beneath the stars shall whisper clear. 
Good night, my sweet ! — though none ma}' hear. 



Isomer €a|)lor ,lFul(er. 

Rev. Homer T. Fuller was born in Lempster, Nov. 15, 1838. He prepared forool- 
lege at Kimball Union Academy, and graduated at Dartmouth in 1864. He was prin- 
cipal of Fredonia (N. Y.) Academy, 1864-7. He graduated at Union (N. Y.) The- 
ological Seminary, May, 1869; was principal of St. Johnsbury (Vt.) Academy, I87I- 
82; and is at present principal of Free Institute, Worcester, Mass. He has spent 
about a year and a half in Europe, chiefly studying its educational institutions. 



JEWELS. 

How many have jewels, gems sparkling with light. 

Held dear to the heart, and oft near to the sight. 

To which the affections so ardentl}^ cling, 

That to tear them awa}' from the owner would bring - 

Uncontrollable sorrow and unalloyed grief? 

Ah ! man}' have jewels ; — and could we each leaf 

Of the human heart turn, and its pages peruse. 

Much there should we find both to pain and amuse. 

In beholding the jewels of various kind. 

On which nameless values are placed by the mind. 

The Brazilian has jewels ; — Golconda's rich mine 

Has gilded him diamonds and rubies that shine 

With a brilliancy which is befitting, alone. 

To encircle the brow of a king on his throne ; 

A kingdom will purchase, and give in return 

Drugged wines that will make the Brazilian's cheek burn. 

That will pander his passions, and fiend-like, enslave 

Both his body and soul, till he sinks in the grave. 

The Persian has jewels ; — in Oman's green wave 

The pearl-diver loves his dark body to lave ; 

But spends for narcotics the fruits of his toil. 

Drinks, quari'els, and dies on that Mussulman soil. 

The Hindoo has jewels ; — the famed Koh-i-noor 

Was the cause of much wrangling and many a war, 

'Till the conquering Briton, with covetous eyes, 

01)tained and bore home to his sovereign, the prize. 

Old England has jewels ; — in Westminster's pile. 

Is a room well environed and guarded from wile, 



HOMER TA YL OR F ULLER. 5 73 

AVhere gem-glittering sceptres and crowns of pure gold, 

Decked with amethysts, sapphires and pearls, _you behold. 

The court of old England is spangled with light, 

And roj-altj^'s trappings quite dazzle the sight ; 

But while you are gazing on these precious stones, 

Just think of the debt under which P^ngland groans. 

Just think of the taxes, and all the church-rates, 

Of tenants ejected from landlords' estates. 

Of billows of miserj', on which those are tossed. 

And say if these jewels are worth what the}' cost. 

But come home to New England — on AVashingtou Street, 

In our own modern Athens, ere long we shall meet 

A jewelled hair-smirker, well-known to the crowd ; 

A little behind, with a carriage as proud 

As would well grace a queen, walks the belle of the town. 

If her gloves were pulled off, and her shawl would fall down, 

You might see jewelled fingers, pins, lockets, and chains, 

The gifts of such friends as have more gold than brains. 

Yea, these possess jewels ; — but can such ever give 

The possessor true pleasure, or help man to live 

As he should, e'er distinguished by real inward worth, 

As befits the great end of existence on earth? 

But jewels there are which less dazzle the eye. 

And on which we not often set values too high. 

Good health is a jewel ; — then tarnish it not ; 

For Croesus without it ma}' env}- 3'our lot. 

Possessing this boon, in the most humble cot. 

True friendship's a jewel ; — the friend that will share 

Adversity, trial, misfortune and care, 

AVhen these come upon you, should alwa^-s be i:)i-ized 

Above all the presents man ever devised. 

Good looks are bright jewels ; — when won well they show, 

In the face of the owner, the ivcalth 'tis to know, 

Of these, there is one which to man has been given. 

The diamond of life, to prepare him for heaven. 

Benevolence, temperance, faith, patience and truth 

With virtue, embellish both manhood and youth 

With radience brighter than rubies can give. 

The mind is a jewel ; — the mintl that will live 

When the body shall crumble to dust whence it came, 

A gem that may brighten to glory and fame, 

If cut b}' true wisdom, and polished with grace, 

Or lose all its lustre, if errors deface. 

The soul which is trusting to Jesus alone, 

And seeks for no good in itself to atone 

For its guilt, and which lives for the glory of God, 



574 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

Shall be one of the jewels which He, in His word, 
Says, He will make up in that terrible daj', 
When eartli with its dwellers shall all pass awa}'. 
Then reader, while life is vouchsafed to you here. 
Seek not the vain treasures of this rolling sphere ; 
But, ere 'tis too late make the choice of that prize 
Which will crown 3-011 forever with Christ in the skies. 



"STRAIGHTWAY." 

Mark 1 : 20. 

"Straightway he calleth," — baptized from above 
Straightway proclaimeth his message of love, 
Straightwa}^ the wilderness traverseth o'er, 
Straightway resisteth temptations most sore. 

"Straightway he calleth," as soon as He came, 
Waiting to know neither title nor name ; 
Asking not readiness, fitness, more faith, 
But following, obeying whatever He saith. 

Straightway they followed, forsaking their nets. 
Uttering no murmurs, nor sighs, nor regrets 
For fishes, or fortunes, or friends they had left ; 
For with Jesus, of naught were they reall}- bereft. 

Onward they followed through storm and through calm, 
Onward the}^ pressed before sword, stake and flame ; 
So came the kingdom, and so were there won 
Victories and crowns for the crucified Son. 

"Straightway he calleth," — yes, now, as of 3'ore, 
Straightway He pleadeth, put nothing before, 
Straightwa}', to-da3', choose thou the "good part," 
Straightwa3', to-da3^, give O give Him thine heart. 



iSmilg Crai)am l^agiDartr. 

Miss Hayward, the daughter of Dea. Amherst and Sarah (Fish) Hayward, was 
born ill Gilsum, Felnniary 8, 1838, and died in that town, April 16, 18G(i. She receiv- 
ed an academic education at Merideu and New Ipswich. Most of her poems were 
written for special occasions and were published in the local newspapers. A 
short time before her death she wrote the following stanza in a friend's album : 

Those wide celestial gates 

Seem almost in my sight; 
Beyond whose portals loved ones dwell, 

And there is no more night. 



EMIL Y GRAHAM HA YWARD. 575 

THE WREATH OF LOVE. 

Oh, twine a wreath of love for me, 

And place it on mj- brow ; 
There let me wear it daj' by day, 

Forever bright as now. 

The flowers of love are very fair, 

Though gentle be their hue ; 
They never fade when once in bloom ; 

They're ever fresh with dew. 

A wi'eath of love alike becomes 

The child of want and wealth ; 
It gives a charm that still is felt 

In hours of pain or health. 

Then gather now the flowers of love. 

And weave a wreath for me ; 
I'll wear it still where'er I go 

Upon the land or sea. 

'Twill be my passport through the world, 

Where'er my footsteps bend ; 
'Twill gain me entrance through the gate 

At this lone journej-'s end. 

There I shall meet the pure and blest. 

And, sitting down with them, 
The wreath of love will then become 

An angel's diadem. 



LINES 

Suggested by reading "Jane Eyre." 

Lonely and weary my footsteps are stra3'ing, 

While round me the damp winds of evening are playing. 

And over my heart cold shadows are falling, 

While a voice deep within for ni}' lost one is calling, 

"•Come back, oh come back, ra}' darling, to me. 

And cheer the lone heart that is aching for thee." 

You have wandered awa}', j'ou have left me alone. 
As if my poor heart were nothing but stone ; 
But 'tis bleeding and breaking in anguish to-day. 
While 3'ou amid strangers are now far awa}' ; 
Your own heart will weep, for your cruelty tore 
Yourself from the hopes you will cherish no more. 



576 POETS OF NEW HAMP8HIBE. 

My love, though so wild, was most tender and true, 
I would love and protect you life's journey through. 
Then come back, oh come back, my darling, to me, 
And cheer the lone heart that is waiting for thee. 

REPLY. 

A well-known voice rings in my ear 

In accents wild and deep ; 
That sound has often haunted me 

In silent hours of sleep. 

It is the voice of one I love, 

Its tones I've often heard ; 
It thrills each fibre of my frame, 

At every spoken word. 

It echoes through tlie forest deep, 

And over vale and hill ; 
In earnest tones I hear my name 

Ring through the evening still. 

Yes, I'm coming, wait for me ; 

My heart is ever true ; 
Oh, I will come, but tell me where, 

Oh, tell me, where are 3'ou? 



Hpia 1^. Hilton. 

Mrs. Tilton was born in Tuftonboroupli, July 10, 1839. Her father, Abel Heath, 
was a minister of the Methodist P^piscopal Church, and was known to the Methodists 
throufchout New England. He died during a session of Conference, in Nashua, iu 
18:V2, leaving a widow and eight children. From this time his daughter, Lydia, re- 
sided in Manchester. She was educated in the public schools there, and in the New 
Hampshire Conference Seminary, and was employed for several years as a teacher 
iu Henniker Academy and other schools. In ISGG she married Sir. R. N. Tilton, 
and removed to Washington, D. C, where she has since resided. She is well knowu 
in literary circles, and her poems have been received with favor. 



ALL THINGS. 

Romans viii : 28. 

All things work for our good : — the seeming ill. 
The griefs, — so hard to bear ! — the wrongs that chill 
Our trust in human hearts ; for on the best 
Come all these evils. Can faith bear the test? 

Aye ! though our e3'es see onl^' loss and pain, 
Incessant care and toil and little gain ; 
And though the crumbs, while others break the bread. 
Tell not of blessing, but of woe instead ; 



LTD I A H. TIL TON. 577 



Somehow, somewhere, an alchem}' divine 
Shall into blessings, even ills, combine ; 
Somewhere, the stories saddest here below 
Shall end in joy, the brighter for their woe. 

Is there not pledge of future life and bliss, 
As well as saddest earthl}' truth in this ? 
If good men, here, from ills have no defense, 
Heaven must await them with sure recompense. 

To what glad heights, then, should our faith attain ! 
God might have made the wa}- to heaven plain, 
And left no flowers of promise by the wa}', 
Like this on which our sad hearts rest to-day. 

But; one by one, the promises — descried 
If we but lift the leaves wherein they hide — 
Make us forget the roughness of the way ; 
And bring us love and blessing day by day. 



THE BRIDAL WREATH. 

We're married ! O never a princess of old 
More proudly wore crown, though of jewels and gold, 
Than wear I to-day, as you make me 30ur wife. 
This emblem, that crowns me the queen of 3'our life. 

The words are all spoken that bind us as one, 
The journe3' together is gladlj- begun ; 
Yet know we not whither, nor know we how strong 
Our hearts, for the journey we hope ma}^ be long. 

"Love, honor, and keep :" as if that were a task ! 
"Obey" is left out ; for your love does not ask 
A servant, but one who shall stand at j'our side. 
Your co-worker, equal in hope and in pride. 

I've questioned my heart, brought the lens of my love 
To b^'ar on all sides, seeking light from above 
To show me if aught could hold me, as your wife, 
From being a blessing and joy to your life. 

No thorns has this wreath, but its smiles pass awa}' ; 
Full blown are its flowers — nearer thus to decay — 
Are the}', then, true S3-mbols? Are jo3's at their birth 
To fade like these frail things we pluck from the earth ? 

Nay ! think not I scorn them ; they are what they seem. 
Bright, beautiful emblems of love's happ}- dream ; 



I 
578 POETS OF NEW HAMP8HIBE. 

And tbougli all their beautj^ may fade with to-da}-, 
The wreath on my heart, love will keep fresh for a^-e. 

We meet life together ; as neither, alone. 
Had tasted the bliss even now all our own ; 
So, through all the future, the heights we attain 
Will be those we struggle, together, to gain. 

I know cares await us, but do not forget 
Love guards us, far higher and purer than yet 
Our human hearts know ; so, here at your side, 
I look up, and heaven seems crowning your bride. 

Ah, never a queen, in the proud days of old. 
More proudly wore crown, though of jewels and gold, 
Than wear 1 to-day, as you make me j'our wife, 
This emblem that crowns me the queen of j'our life. 



FURNISHING THE HOUSE. 

Na}^ haste not, my friend, to arrange, for vain pride. 
Such rooms as wealth only could give to your bride ; 
And make no apology ; every one knows 
Rich fruit is not gathered before the tree grows. 

Your neighbors are older ; and many long years 
Have garnered the wealth that so lavish appears ; 
Jump not the low rounds, lest you stumble and fall ; 
And sacrifice home, pride and honor, withal. 

O dare to be happy in spite of bare floors 

And furnishings plain ; and open no doors 

To aught that can hang on your shoulders a debt ; 

And these same proud neighbors will envy 3'ou, yet. 

You have, what the proudest would go far to gain. 
Youth, health, and good-nature, and lives without stain, 
A smile for each other, no losses to weep. 
No skeleton's shadow behind you to creep. 

No carpets too rich for the weariest tread ; 
No rooms to keep closed, as if tombs for the dead ; 
No mortgage to fear, and no unneeded cares ; 
You take the outside things of life upon shares. 

No palace is 3'ours, but each heart hath its throne ; 
No land, but the landscape all smiles, as 3'our own ; 
And all things below, with the all things above. 
Are yours ; if to God you are true, and to love. 



LTDIA H. TIL TON. 579 

THE KISS AT THE DOOR. 

Nay, darling, I cannot "love thee 

As the morning we were wed V\ 
Too fondh' ni}' heart is nurtured. 

Too much upon manna fed, 
To shrink to the old-time measure : 

Although I scarcely know 
How love, that the 3'eai's have strengthened, 

Found so much room to grow. 

I know when the whispered, "darling" 

"Woke to a happier life 
The heart that since has listened 

To the added word of "wife," 
I fancied the very angels 

Could not have loved you more ; 
But now a love far greater 

Shall kiss you, at the door. 

I know 3'ou are often wear}' 

With business care and strife ; 
But you always bring home sunshine 

And blessing, to your wife. 
Each trial but serves to strengthen 

The bond that was strong before : 
And I watch, as the shadows lengthen. 

To kiss you, at the door. 

Our "God is love," my darling : 

He plants, with man}- flowers. 
The paths, in which his children 

Must pass their earthly- hoiu's : 
Our path seems each da}- brighter 

With light from the unseen shore ; 
And gratefuU}' I linger 

To kiss you, at the door. 

Each life hath its minor cadence ; 

The sad with the sweet must blend ; 
And even to heart communings 

Come whisperings of the end : 
But, oh, if the angels call me 

First, to the shining shore, 
I will watch and wait to welcome, 

And kiss you, at the door. 



580 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

oriara 13. f^eati). 

Mrs. Heath, whose maiden name was Sawyer, was born in Manchester, July 28, 
1837, and with the exception of a few years has always resided In that city. She 
was educated iu the schools there. At the age of twenty-two she became the wife 
of Mr. Robert Heath. She began to write poetry at an early age, but published 
nothing before she was seventeen. She then wrote for the Boston Olive Branch 
and other papers, generally under an assumed name. In 1881 an elegant volume of 
her poems was published, entitled "Water Lilies and other Poems." Mrs. Heath 
finds her inspiration in every day thoughts and experiences, domestic joys and 
sorrows, simple friendships and the hopes and consolations of religion. In her 
picturing of natural scenes and rural life she is true to nature and very pleasing. 
Her verse is melodious and graceful in expression. 



WATER LILIES. 

O regal roses so bright and fair ! 
Filling with fragrance the balmy air, 
Glowing in beauty on every hand, 
Sweeter than dreams of a fairy land ; 
'Tis well to come when the year is new, 
In its freshest gi-een, and its brightest blue. 

In earl}' spring 'twas the violet 

We searched for in woods and meadows wet. 

Arbutus, too, with its pink and white, 

Was ever a source of new delight ; 

While the purple pansies the gardens brought 

Were sweeter than all, we sometimes thought. 

But the heart of the summer brings a glow 
No other time in the year can know. 
We seek the lake, and the little boat, 
And over the waters dreaming float. 
To gather the lilies, starry-eyed. 
That rest on the shining, lapsing tide. 

What is as fair of all flowers that bloom ? 
What is as rare, with its rare perfume? 
What is as pure, with its home of waves? 
What is as fresh that the sunbeam laves? 
Perfect in grace and in loveliness ! 
What is as dainty and sweet as this ? 

How spotless the pearly leaves that fold 
O'er the hidden and perfumed heart of gold ! 
Like fairy castles they seem to float, 
From the shocks and sins of life remote ; 
Anchored, though wind and wave go by. 
With an upward look at the azure sky. 



CLARA B. HEATH. 581 

The brightest morn that my childhood knew 
Was one on the waves so dark and blue. 
How rich I was, and how gay and glad, 
Though the gold of the lilies was all I had ! 
We've gathered little b}- life's highway 
As pure as the treasures of that fair day. 

Sweet water lilies, of white and gold, 

That spring from a bed so dark and cold ; 

With never a taint of their lowl}' birth, 

And never a touch of their mother earth ; 

The heart of the summer would still have shone 

Though never another flower had blown. 



BLUEBERRYING. 

The clouds hung low, for the}- promised rain, 
The mist encircled the far-off hill ; 

Behind us the city spread far and wide, 
Before us the country broad and still. 

The tall grass waved in a gentle breeze, 
The daisies blossomed around mj' feet ; 

I heard the song of the honey-bees. 

For the clover-tops were red and sweet. 

They were making hay in a field we passed, 
The mower stood in a shady nook 

And sharpened anew his shining scythe, 
Just stopping to give us a careless look. 

We passed by a farm-house, old and quaint, 
The well was close to the dusty street ; 

I thought of the shady curb "at home," 

The moss-grown rocks, and the water sweet. 

We followed a path through a pasture old, 
Where alders, mullein, and hard-hack grew ; 

It led us up to the sloping hill ; 

We knew we must climb for the berries blue. 

Close under the leaves of a tiny oak, 
The sweetest spot for a bird to rest, 

I found four eggs of an azure hue. 
Reposing soft in a downy nest. 

Our pails were large, and the berries small, 
The sun soon scattered the mist away 



582 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

The dog came not at our fretful call, 
But panting under the bushes lay. 

How often had I, when a little child, 
Gone berrying just such da3's as this ; 

And yet I was seldom weary then, 

No matter how warm the bright sun's kiss. 

The berries seemed larger, and bluer too, 
That I gathered then on the green hill-side 

And the tin}- pond where the lilies grew, 
I fancied looked like the ocean wide. 

When next we go, may the soft winds blow, 
The berries larger and riper be. 

And fleecy clouds in the deep blue sky 
O'er-shadow valley and hill for me. 



TRANSFORMED. 

Death crowns us all. How soon as interest wakes 
In one bereft of friends, unknown to fame. 

When Death the weary pilgrim feet o'ertakes ; 
A new born wave of awe sweeps round his name. 

As when some sudden breeze the tree-top wakes ; 
Forgotten all his wrong, or sin, or shame. 

Even the hardest heart some pity shows, 

And sighs with solemn bated breath, "Who knows?" 

Who knows what might lj|p,ve been, had fortune paved 
His way with buds of hope and blossoms fan- ? 

If but a soft Arcadian wind had laved 
The heated brow and left its kisses there ? 

Who knows but that he may have been enslaved 
By mighty powers that throng the earth and air 

Such as we have not met with? Ah ! who knows 

How strong life's under-current ebbs and flows? 

The little child that on our bosom la}' 

A few brief days, and left us sick and sad. 

Calls with a stronger voice to us to-day 

Than those who make our hearth-stone gay and glad. 

We clung the closer as the}- passed away. 
We did not realize the joy we had. 

Death's sombi'e gate of silence closes quite, 

In haste as if to shut out heaven's light. 



CLABA B. HEATH. 583 



How perfect are our dead ! no eyes so blue 
As those forever closed in dreamless sleep ; 

No lil}' hands, though waxen in their hue, 
Can beckon to us o'er hfe's slim}' deep, 

"With half the power of those pale hands we knew, 
That now are lost to us where shadows creep ; , 

Tender and true, their follies known no more. 

The}' stand transformed upon the other shore. 



SEA MOSSES. 

"Bring me, I said, a breath of the sea." 

Was this the fringe of a sea-nymph's robe, 
Caught in the door of a coral cave, 

Loosened b}' waters that span the globe, 
And tossed ashore on a foam}- wave ? 

"Was that tlie tip of a dancing plume 

That decked the head of a mermaid queen? 

Or refuse threads from an elfin loom, 
Matching her mantle of pale sea green ? 

"Were these the trees of a mimic isle, 
Never at loss for the sun or dew ? 

Or onl}' the branches that decked awhile 
A fairy boat with its fairy crew ? 

Are these the strands of a carpet soft, 
Richer than mortal has ever trod. 

Freed by the current and borne aloft, 
To show us the hidden work of God? 

O little mosses, perfect and fair ! 

Emerald, crimson, and brown, and jet, 
Fashioned with infinite skill and care. 

The charm of the sea is with you yet. 

Nature, propelled by the Master's hand, 
Cares for the unseen as well as seen. 

Touches each part with her magic wand. 
Matches each stroke with a stroke as keen. 

Had we but eyes for the hidden glow. 

Thrown on each page of her wondrous book, 

"Were we a tithe of her beaut}' to know. 
Crude would the best of our efforts look. 



584 POETS OF NEW HAMP8HIBE. 

Thanks, little mosses, daintily fine, 
The fancies are sweet 3'e bring to me ; 

Thanks to the hand that transferred to mine, 
With your fairy fronds, a breath of the sea. 



' THE GREAT REWARD. 

1 Cor. 11 : 9. 

"Ej'e hath not seen." O human eye ! 

Bewildered by the earth below, 
The matchless glories of the sky, 

The shining waves that ebb and flow, 
The flowers with all their varied tints, 

Brighter than ever monarch wore, — 
Are these fair things indeed but hints 

Of what our Father has in store ? 

"Ear hath not heard." O human ear ! 

Charmed with the music of the sea. 
Filled with the sounds that greet thee here, 

Rejoicing in their harmon}^. 
Entranced by every word and tone 

From loving lips that rise and fall. 
Hast thou indeed, then, never known 

The heavenly sounds that will enthrall ? 

"No heart conceives." Strange human heart. 

Proud of thine unseen depths below, 
Buoj'ed by the hopes that from thee dart. 

Is there still more for thee to know ? 
Capacious heart, that burns and thrills, 

And throbs again with ecstasy, — 
When earth-born joys such caverns fill. 

How deep the heavenly tide must be ! 

"For those who love him." Weary soul. 

Drink deeply of the promised bliss. 
How round and beautiful the whole 

Of one great promise such as this ! 
O wondrous ocean of God's love ! 

Beyond all comprehension wide ! 
Thy waves will bear the saints above. 

Where all are more than satisfied. 



STEPHEN H. THAYER. 585 

S. H. Thayer was born in the town of Xew Ipswioh, December ]G, 1S39. Tlis early 
life was spent in his native plaee where he attended school at New Ipswich Apple- 
ton Academy, one of tlie oldest institutions of tlie kind in New Hampshire, 
from which "lie graduated in 1857. He left his home early the following year, 
and after spending a year or more in a counting house in Boston, removed 
to New York city, where for six years he was employed in a banking house 
connected with the New Vork Stock Exchange. In 18G4 he was elected a member 
of the Exchange and very soon after united with otliers in organizing a banking 
and commission house in M'hich he has been a partner for seventeen years. He 
owns a beautiful suburban residence near Tarrytown on the Hudson River, on 
an elevation overlooking lifty miles of river view, and in the midst of the Sleepy- 
Hollow region made famous by Washington Irving's legendary tales, as well as 
classical, by the Provincial and Ilevolutionary historv of our country. In spite of 
the most exacting attention to his business interests, iMr. Thayer has contributed a 
large number of poems, during the past ten years, to various periodicals here and 
abroad, and is still writing with the intention, at an early daj', of collecting his 
poetic work for publication in book form. Several of his poems may be found in 
Longfellow's collection of "Poems of Places" published a few years ago. 



ON THE BANKS OF THE SOWHEGAN. 

The summer air is sweet with balm, 

The river like a mirror lies, 
Reflecting back the tranquil calm 

Of Hampshire's golden sunset skies. 

The waters murmur on, the same, ' 

Their melodies of ages long ; 
The hills, so often called b}- name, 

Still answer back the voice of song. 

The forest trail that in the da3-s 

Of 3'outh I roamed, the sinuous stream 

Along whose marge, by devious waj's, 
I wandered in my earlier dream ; 

And all the slumberous solitude 

Within the old familiar glen. 
Are as they were of 3'ore, and brood 

"Within my spirit now as then. 

I hear the sylvan voices break 

Far in the deeps of birch and pine. 

Where summer's winged songsters wake 
To thrill again with notes divine. 

I stroll along the pebbly strand. 
Or wander o'er the drows}' steep ; 

The meadow, lake, and slope expand 
In hazy harmonies of sleep. 

And on the grassy ledge I lie, 
Unmindful of the world beyond, 



586 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

Linked to the heart of memory, 
And sweetly cherishing the bond. 

I close my ej'es, and up the stream 
Of life return, in fancy dear, 

To those fair days of 3-outh and dream 
When oft I rowed the river here ; 

Until, oblivions of the years. 

Afar through mists of world and time, 

A phantom boatman steers and veers 
His barque, like music in a rhyme. 

His form is lithe, his eye is keen. 

His song keeps time to dipping oars ; 

He sings with heart and faith serene. 
And leaves behind the merging shores : 

He leaves behind the hedge and ferns. 
The sheltering trees and mimic slopes, 

As in his soul a passion burns 

That stirs his life with larger hopes. 

His homely craft recoils and shifts 
Where deeper currents speed him on, 

Then down the broadening waters drifts. 
And rounds the point and he is gone. 

And he is gone for aj-e and aye ; 

He never more as boy returns, 
But now, in sober manhood's da}^, 

He plucks again the river ferns. 

A sterner world of stress and pain, 

A world of love and thought and strife, 

Of storm and calm, of loss and gain, 
Has knit his heart to other life. 

Yet here, in memory's sweet repose, 

Where once his halcyon hopes were born, 

He sings his song of these, for those 
Who then were here, but now are gone. 



THE BELLS OF NYACK. 

The lurking shadows, dim and mute, 
Fall vaguely on the dusky river ; 

Vexed breezes play a phantom lute 
Athwart the waves that curl and quiver. 



STEPHEN E. THAYEB. 587 



And hedged against an amber light 
The lone hifls cling, in vain endeavor 

To touch the curtained clouds of night 
Tliat, weird-like, form and fade forever. 

The sad moon bathes with silvery beams 
Tlie hush of twilight, bated breatli. 

While fallow thoughts, unfathomed dreams, 
Weave mystic webs with life and death. 

Then break upon the blessed calm, 

(Deep dying melodies of even,) 
Those Nya'ck bells ; like some sweet psalm, 

They iloat along the fields of heaven. 

I know not that their liquid knells 

Bear less of joy's than grief's refrain ; 

Yet from their echoing spirit swells, 
Methinks, a melancholy strain. 

As if a throb from out the wave 

Had mingled with their airy motion ; 

A song from some fair mermaid's cave, 
A sigh from some far depth of ocean. 

The forests add their sylvan lay, 

The night-birds lend their plaintive rounds, 
The perfumed flowers that fill the day 

Add incense to the muffled sounds. 

And now I hear a marriage chime. 
Commingling with responsive voices, 

A festal song completes the rhyme, 
As heart with wedded heart rejoices. 

Then, lo ! the shadows deepen down. 
And veil, in nun-like darkness, all ; 

Toll slowly, bells, o'er sea and town. 
For death has hung its gloomy pall. 

Dark fancy hears lamenting moans. 

And voices husli, and hearts are broken, 

And in thy knells are widowed tones, — 
A prayer for some Avild woe unspoken. 

Then golden-like, along the west, 
A bright reflection lightens mine, 

And visions in my thouglit a rest 

That mingles in these sounds of thine. 



588 POETS OF NEW EAMPSHIEE. 

Now laden with a nameless balm, 
Now musical with song thou art ; 

I tune thee by an inward charm, 

And make thee minstrel of my heart. 

Oh, bells of Nyack, faintl}' toll 
Across the starry-lighted sea ; 

Th}' murmurs thrill a thirsty soul. 
And wing a heavenl}^ hymn to me. 



A JUNE SONG. 

A heart, in the June-day of summer. 

Had tasted the violet's lips, 
Had stolen, from every new comer. 

The honey that lover-heart sips, 
Had traversed the low-lands, the high-lands. 

To drink of the dewy sweets there. 
Had wandered through near-lands and far-lands. 

The blossoms of summer to share ; 

Till longing and lonely, a-sighing 

For love of a love that was vain, 
For a bliss that ever was d3'ing. 

For a joy that covered a pain, 
It winged its far flight over mountain. 

It spanned the purple sea-plain, 
It sped to the lil^^-brimmed fountain 

Of the passion of youth again ; 

It listened for a murmur, a laughter, 

It dreamt of a fairy face there. 
It plead for an answer, once softer 

Than songs on the smnmer-sea air ; 
But the voice was hushed in the gloaming. 

The form and the spirit were gone, 
The face in the mirror-fount, foaming. 

Had melted to mist with the morn. 

The June-day of summer was over. 
The autumn had withered the May, 

The bloom of the heart of the lover 
Had faded forever away. 



TWILIGHT CONTRASTED. 

Th}' passive hour is often full of deeps ; 
The sun has left its after-glow far east ; 



STEPHEN H. THAYEB. 589 

Twilight ! thou art stolen beauty ! least 
And last of da}-, — an amber-calm, that keeps 
The soul inlit with heaven, and strangel}' steeps 

With low imbosomed song, (true minstrel feast,) 

The fair}' imager}' of thought ; released 
From sterner ways, the dreamy fancy sleeps 
In revery ; the world is hushed and spirit 

Answers spirit in language of its own, 
Without the wliisper, or the ear to hear it, 

As one alone, who is not all alone ; 
And stilly voices echo on the air, 
And silent songs melt into silent prayer. 

I hear the swift winds sweep along the west. 
Invisible — heaven's armies put to flight ! — 
First far, then near, their giant wings affright 
The wailing forest trees that vainly breast 
Their torrent-force. And yet the sound is rest ; 

1 love it — fierce, defiant^— in its might. 

It lulls, like roar of ocean waves at night ; 
Companion-like, I love its tumults best. 
For I am weak, and strong, and nothing long, 

Fretting against the narrow walls of sense, 
Impatient of the unimpassioned throng. 

Half-prisoned by dull fate, but still intense 
With will to conquer and compel — a power 
That tempts, and yet eludes me every hour ! 



UNINTERPRETED. 

Within the vale-embosomed wold. 

Low droop the tasselled chestnut boughs ; 
Soft lullabies of sweet repose 

Still murmur, as in days of old. 

Deep in the sleeping solitude. 
Half-muffled in its ferny dream, 
The silver ripple of the stream 

Whispers its ancient interlude ; 

While, far aloft, the busy wren, 
Or thrush, or lark, in luteful strain, 
Flings wild its pangs of joy or pain, 

In echoes through the hollow glen. 



590 POETS OF NEW HAMP8HIBE. 

And here awhile I muse in thought, 
How, through the nameless eons gone, 
The circling birds have sung alone. 

In language man was neA'er taught. 

Thick sheltered from the common way, 
Who knows what air}' spirit thrills 
The feathered throat, what rapture fills, 

Or tender vows inspire its la}' ? 

"Who knows the lyrical caress, — 

An art b}' man scarce understood, — 
By which the birdling's heart is wooed 

To love's dehrium of bliss ? 

Who knows the sadness that it sings? 

Its chidings to its lover-mate ? 

Or fond repl}^, or scornful hate 
Marked in the flutter of its wings ? 

What sighs intone its music so? 

W^hat passions tremble in its song? 

What questionings of right and wrong 
Impel its answer, "Yes" or "No"? 

What code of wisdom teaches it? 

What yearnings fill its aching breast? 

What glory of celestial rest, 
Eternal, in its soul is lit ? 

Who knows, ah ! who? We can but guess 

An inly answer, as we sing. 

Or think, a vain imagining ; 
But all without is nothingness. 

Yet, might I know — or foul, or fair, 
Whatever fortune Avins the day — 
That birds would fill my wandering way 

W^ith their wild songs, I would not care. 



GREAT TEMPLE OF KARNAK. 

Thou art not now ; a far off age did knell 
A greater death that marked thy lesser fall. 
Thou mighty temple, reared by Egypt's thrall ! 
What grandeur do thy silent ruins tell. 
Wherein a thousand buried arts do dwell ? 
Karnak ! wondrous e'en thy mould'ring wall. 



STEPHEN H. THAYER. 591 



Whose countless crumbling monuments recall 
The mystic splendor of thine ancient spell ! 
But wherefore name i\\y praise ! Forevermore, 
As ever, thou art dead. Thou ne'er didst live, 
Save in the mockery of truth, to score 
The spoils of false, despotic kings ; to give 
The tyrant's lash to cringing slave, or fame 
To glory, or to baser gods a name ! 



A PARTING SONG. 

Not long ago, I listened to the song 
A robin trilled, as, from a covert shade. 

Beneath a maple's golden bough, its strong, 

Clear voice broke from the stillness of the glade. 

To me, the plaintive notes had drawn their sweets 
From nature's emblems of the waning year. 

A flush of glory and of death entreats 

The heart to nameless longings, which endear 

The senses to the mem'ry, as they meet 

This vision of the summer's parting bloom ; 

And as the redbreast's wondrous song did greet 
My ear, it seemed a plea to stay the doom. 

"The past ! the past ! Oh, for a breath of spring ! 

Come back to me, ye loves of youth !" it said ; 
"Oh ! hasten, moments, once again, and bring, 

Bring to my brooding wings the loved ones "fled." 

A dying pathos blended with its tone, 

As if it knew that nevermore again 
Could be reclaimed the happy seasons gone. 

Its wild impassioned song was sung in vain ! 

Its tired wings, uplifted, beat the air. 
As, breasting onward toward the southern sky, 

Noiseless it soared away, I know not where, 
In softer climes to sing its song, and die. 



A VOICE FROM THE SEA. 

Once, by the moon-lit sea we stood, 

And watched the shield of glimmering light 

That fell across the throbbing flood, 
Melting the shadowy folds of night. 



592 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

Far o'er the shifting, silvery sand 
That ever}' rolling wave re- swept, 

We heard the billows lave the strand, 
In monodj'' that never slept ; 

And far along the sheeny deep, 

We saw the flying fleet of sail 
■ That cleft the swell, and seemed to leap, 
And scorn the threat of gathering gale. 

And ah ! the sounds that softly broke 
In ceaseless surges from the sea, 

Blent with a murmuring voice, that woke 
To breathe an answer back to me : 

For there beneath the bending sky — 
Sweet vision of a day that's dead — 

One whispered words that ne'er can die. 
Whose earthly image long has fled. 

Break thou, O purple waves, for aye, 
And lade the winds, and kiss the shore, 

For all in vain I dream, a day 

Shall bring me back that voice of 3'ore. 

But 3'et, along the strand, alone, 
I watch the never-dying sea. 

And hear the never-dying tone 

From lips that whispered love to me ! 



Miss Gorrcll, a daughter of Samuel Armour and Hannah (Bradford) Gorrell, 
was born in Salem in 1840. Her years have been spent in her native town and 
in Manchester till 1883. She is now residing in Pelham at the Homestead long 
owned by her grandfather, Robert Bradford. 



LOOKING ACROSS THE VALE. 

Sing, happy birds, — jo. cannot know 
Our human sense of heavy loss ! 

Bloom, flowers fair, — of pain or woe 
No weight is yours, nor any cross ! 

Sing on, sing on, sweet voices, still ! 

Look upward, blossoms, from the sod ! 
Live on, live on, ye do fulfil 

Your being's law, the will of God ! 



MIBANDA M. GOBBELL. . 593 

;Most dear \q are, 3'e gladdened so 

Tlie hearts of those, who, passing o'er 

Dentil's vale of shadows, long ago, 
To mortal sight return no more. 

"Are not these flowers new words of God?" 
Asked one of these, friend of the poor, — 

Lifelong, Truth's thorn}' wa}' he trod. 
In holy cause, strong to endure. 

His life, his love, still speak his praise ; 

His words along the years shall ring ! 
Even now, though late, for him men raise 

The graven stone, and tribute bring. 

All powerless now Hate's fiery breath ; 

No more of fruitless toil the}- know 
Who enter truer life through deaths 

And drink where healing waters flow 

From springs eternal ; — but, O love, 

Cannot thy pleading reach them yet? 
Stand they on heights so far above 

Earth, that thy sorrow they forget? 

We still, with tongues that falter, read 
First-lesson pages, stained with tears ; 

The hands we lift, in childhood's need 
Of guidance, tremble with our fears. 

So backward we, and slow^ to learn, 

So often wander ftir astray, 
In wistful searching and return 

Spending so much of precious da}^ ; 

While the}', our dear ones, ncA-ermore 

Lose time or strength in effort vain. 
But wiser grow in heavenly lore. 

And unto higher life attain ; 

Ah, surely, we can ne'er o'ertake 

Them, in the far-off, unseen land ! 
And if they turn not, for love's sake, 

Unto its border, Avhere we stand 

At last, bewildered, weary, sad, — 
If they come not, with word and tone 

And welcome, as of old-time, glad, 
How^ shall we find again, our own? 



594 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

OUT OF THE DEPTHS. 

I stood upon a wreck-strewn shore, 
Watching the pulse of ocean beat, 

Until a white-capped wavelet bore 
A bit of drift-wood to my feet. 

Then, from the depths, there came to me 
A voice I knew, — "What art thou, soul, 

Afloat upon a troubled sea. 

Borne onward as its waters roll ? 

Behold thyself, thyself, in this 

Fragment, so worthless, useless, all ! 

What wonder, if, to some ab^^ss 
Of darkness, thou at last shalt fall? 

Of dust, one atom in the air. 

The tiniest shell in 3'on sea-cave, — 

These with the universe compare, — 
Dreaming of life beyond the grave ! 

Think of unbounded fields of space ; 

Of stars, as countless as the sand ; 
Each held in its appointed place 

By the Creator's tireless hand ! 

Yea, God, the Infinite, o'er all 

Ruleth, the King of worlds untold ; 

But, 'AVhat is man ?' O soul, recall 
And ponder well the question old ! 

Look thou abroad, among thy kind : 
See how death and destruction wait ; 

What chains of limitation bind 
Men down in lowness of estate ! 

Believest thou, of God, that he 
Will hear, or heed, a mortal's cry? 

Then, why ck)th poor humanit}' 
Under a cross of anguish lie ?" 

Lost was the voice, in murmers low 
Of evening wind, o'er wreck and tide ; 

"I know, I know, and do not know — 
O where art thou, my God?" I cried. 

"Giver of life, dost thou not care 
For earth-born children, in their woe ? 



MIBANDA 31. GOBBELL. 595 

"Wilt tliou abandon to despair, 

The least, most helpless, here below? 

Nay, let me keep my faith in thee, 

Througli all of ill that may betide ! 
Faith in thy love, this, grant to me, 

Whatever else may be denied !" 

An answer came ; when all the wild 

And drear}- scene, night curtained o'er ; 

One after one, above me, smiled 
The glad stars, friend I3' as of 3'ore ! 

From the eternal realm of calms 

The}' looked, and said, "-'Neath gi-eat and small 
Are yet the Everlasting Arms, 

From which not one, not one, may fall ! 

The laws so diml}' understood 

B}' thee, O thou of little faith. 
Are those of wisdom, justice, good. 

And unto life, they lead, not death ! 

Thy God is there, thy God is here. 

Where'er on him his creatures call ; 
Listen no longer unto fear, 

Trust Him, who is the Life of all !" 

Assured, and comforted, and stilled, 

I, then, with clearer vision, saw, 
That, all its purposes fulfilled. 

Perfection is the end of law. 

Upon the first, large-lettered scroll 

Of nature glows the word, "Design," 
And, surely, as the ages roll, 

Unfoldeth still, the plan divine ! 

Slowly, — as light grows, hour b}- hour, — 

Even through sulTering made strong. 
The human race shall gather power 

To break its chains of sin and wrong ! 

Take courage, wear}', aching heart. 

Faint not beneath thy load of care ! 
They who in battle have a part 

Will in the joy of victory share ! 



596 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

Mrs. Cochrane is the youngest daughter of the late Hon. Daniel French and 
Sarah Wingate Flagg, of Chester, and a half-sister of the late B. B. French. She has 
been a contributor to various publications— chiefly of stories, short and serial ; but 
has occasionally furnished poems and miscellaneous articles, and at one time wrote 
letters from Washington, D. C, while temporarily sojoui'niug there. In 1876 she 
was married to Hon. G. W. Cochrane, of Boston, Mass. 



OH STAY. 

How lovely fair my roses bloomed 

On that bright morn in May ; — 
"And must ye fade?" I sadly cried, 

"Oh sta}^ sweet roses, stay !" 
E'en tlien a passing zephyr swept 

My beauteous flowers away, 
And, withering, dying, on tlie sod 

Each crimson petal lay. 

A storm came o'er the setting sun, 

But lo ! as it passed by, 
Jehovah's promise written there 

Upon the cloud}^ sky ! 
With hands upraised I quickly cried, 

"Oh, lovely rainbow, sta}- !" 
E'en while I spake, those glorious hues 

Were fading fast awa3^ 

Sweet summer, wdth her golden hair. 

Walked through the joj^ous earth. 
And wood, and vale, and water-fall, 

Seemed jubilant with mirth. 
But scarce I caught the glowing smile 

That wreathed her rosy mouth. 
When autumn frowned, and she, poor maid, 

Went weeping toward the south. 

And lo, a change ! a crimson flame 

Glowed bright from bower and tree ; 
Methought each shrub a "burning bush" 

Where angels called to me. 
In triumph I rejoicing cried, 

"Oh, glorious vision, stay!" 
Alas ! for nature only wore 

The splendors of decay 1 

I saw a maiden, sweet and fair, 

With pure seraphic brow, — 
Well might it be, — alas the day ! 



HELEN A. F. COCHEANE. 507 



For she's a seraph now : 
I fondly thought to walk with her 

Along life's darkening way, 
But she was of earth's beautiful, 

And so she could not staj'. 

Oh autumn leaves, that glow in death, 

Ye roses fair of May, 
Say, if in all this weary world 

There's nothing that will stay? 
Bright summer hours and rainbow hues. 

Too soon the}' pass away. 
But human life, and human love, _ 

Are frailer things than the}'. 



PARTED. 

My sister, in some musing hour. 
When o'er thy soul the past hath power, 
When in thy di'eams thou livest o'er 
The days that will return no more, — 
Say, does no yearning thought e'er come 
To this, thy childhood's earliest home? 

Th}' home, though years and years have passed 
Since thou, dear one, wert with with us last ; 
And oft we've wished, though still in vain. 
That thou wert with us once again. 
Say, will thy foot cross nevermore 
The threshold of thy father's door? 

Thy father ! thou wouldst miss his face, 

His kindly smile and dear embrace ; 

For oh, he left us long ago. 

Left sickness, care, and grief below; 

And so we laid his weary head 

To rest, among the quiet dead. 

Ah me, the gloom that o'er us fell, 
None but the fatherless can tell ! 
Then our fair sisters left us, too. 
As if too dark life's pathway grew, 
As if tliey fain would seek above, 
AVhat earth held not, a father's love. 

Sweet flowers above their graves we set — 
The myrtle, rose, and violet ; 
Sweetflowers that tell how brightly they 



508 POETS OF JSfEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Are blooming in eternal day ; 

Frail flowers that tell us, with a sigh, 

How in the dust they mouldering lie. 

And home would seem so sad and strange, 

For thou wouldst mark each dreary change ;- 

But holy memories linger here 

To call thee back, my sister dear ; 

Old memories that th}' soul would thrill, 

And there are hearts that love thee, still. 

Thy mother, where the shadows lie 
That tell life's setting hour is nigh. 
Still walketh on with cheerful feet ; 
How would she joy thy form to greet — 
To greet ere she shall tread that shore 
From which no foot returneth more. 

And I — companionless I stand. 

The last of all our household band ; 

The last, to linger here alone. 

When all the old home light hath flown. 

And I have marked the clianging years 

With weary heart and falling tears. 

They say that time hath touched thy brow, 
I scarce would know my sister now ; — 
And should fate's darkly rushing tide 
For aj'e our earthly paths divide. 
In that sweet land where comes no care, 
Where all is lovely, pure and fair. 
Shall we not know each other there ? 



ACROSS THE SEA. 

Thou hast left th}' home ni}- brother. 

Left the friends who love thee best ; 
But sweet memories, and hallowed. 

Come to soothe each saddened breast ; 
And the prayer goes up at even, 

For our wanderer o'er the sea, 
"O, our Father, gent!}' lead him, 

Bring him safely back to me." 

At her window sits thy mother, 

Musing in the twilight gre}'. 
And I know that she is thinking 

Of her dear one far away. 



HELEN A. F. COCHRANE. 599 



And I know that thus she pra^-eth, 
While her heart goes o'er the sea, 

"O, our Father, gently lead him. 
Bring him safely back to me." 

Often dreams thy fair young daughter 

Of a far off, foreign land. 
While beneath the trees she strayeth 

Planted b}- thine own dear hand ; 
Vines and trees and roses whispering 

Tender, holy thoughts of thee — 
Then she meekly prays, "God bless him, 

Bring him safely back to me." 

In the -wood, and by the river, 

Sports thy gay, brave-hearted boy, 
And thy little ones are singing 

All day long in childish joy ; 
But when comes the silent evening, 

Hushed is all their childish glee ; — 
Then the}' pra3% "God bless my father. 

Bring him safely back to me." 

She, the tender and true-hearted, 

Given erst thy home to share. 
From th}' fire-side passed serenel}- — 

Passed, and left a shadow there. 
But though in her earthly dwelling 

We no more her form shall see, 
Well we know, mid heaven's brightness. 

That she still remembers thee. 

All last night among the branches. 

Mourned the plaintive whippoorwill, 
And I questioned of my spirit 

If his song foreboded ill. 
Then the song grew louder, sweeter. 

Surely thus he said to me — 
"God, who loves each little creature. 

He will bring him back to thee." 

Glorious broke the summer morning. 

When I oped my window wide. 
And the dear, delicious sunshine 

Bathed me in its golden tide. 
Gemmed with dew-drops hung the blossoms 

Of the old horse-chestnut tree. 
While, to sip their honeyed sweetness, 

Flitted humming-bird and bee. 



000 ' POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

So the world looked up, rejoicing, 

Heaven looked down to earth and smiled, 
And of all its dim foreboding, 

Nature's voice my heart beguiled. 
So I said farewell to sorrow ; 

He who loveth bird and bee. 
He who giveth flowers and sunshine — 

God is ever watching thee. 



Mrs. Holbrook, wife of Rev. C. F. Holljrook, of Newport, is a native of Maine. 
She is a daughter of the late Benjamin B. Bradbury, of Bangor. At tlie early age 
of fifteen years she completed the course of study iii the Bangor High School, after 
which she was a pupil in Mt. Holvoke and Charlestown Female Seminaries, and 
was graduated from the latter. As a pupil Mrs. Holbrook was diligent and bril- 
liant, and as a teacher of young ladies she was efficient and accomplished. Slie 
was married to Mr. Holbrook in 1863, and since that event has shown such devotion 
to parish work and to family duties as to leave her little time for litei^ry labor. 

"IT IS BEAUTIFUL THERE." 

The gates were unclosing, and glories el3'sian 

With strange lustre shone through earth's shadow}' night ; 

A fair maiden gazed on the pure, heavenly vision 
'Till her pillow of stone bore a Bethel of light. 

The faces, lost faces, all radiant with glory, 

Like stars that the darkness of night but reveals. 

One moment shone downward, to tell the sweet story 
Of satisfied hope our earth mist conceals ! 

O thin, love-pierced veil ! How quick the transition 
Through clear, shining waves of light, buoyant air, 

By a swift angel borne, whose merciful mission 
His pale brow surrounds with an aureole fair ! 

The lily white bell of the sweet asphodel 
He bears like a signet of love on his breast, 

And smiles, as smiles onlj^ the fair Israfel 
Who brings the evangel of peace and of rest. 

The maiden looked upward, and saw him draw near, — 

The hi}" bells paled in his still, icy breath ; 
He wooed her with smiles, and with never a fear 

She plighted her troth to the bridegroom. Death. 

"I think I will go ; it is beautiful there," — 

And a smile of strange beauty transfigured her face ; 

We called her b}- name, but the maiden so fair, 
In death's snowy bridal, with still, silent grace 



A^^NIE B. HOLBBOOK. 601 



Gave back no response ; and the vision so brief 
Had faded from out the dark, vacant room ! 

Tlie maiden too vanished ; and grief, sable grief, 

With footsteps all noiseless, approached in the gloom. — 

Be still, throbbing heart, and cease thy repining ! 

Breathe out ihy vain sighs in a child's trustful prayer, 
Beyond the thin veil God's love still divining, 

And know, surely know, "it is beautiful there." 



HYMN, 

Written for a church dedication. 

Though heaven itself cannot contain 

Thy presence, Lord of Grace, 
Yet in the humble, contrite soul 

Thou hast a dwelling place : 
So we, with grateful heart, would dare 

To offer for thy shrine 
Our work of love, this house of prayer ; 

O, consecrate it thine. 

Our work of love, with pure desire 

Inwrought through every part. 
Behold, from corner-stone to spire, 

An offering of the heart ! 
Here let the swiftly coming years 

Attest redeeming grace, 
And penitents, through falling tears, 

Behold a Saviour's face. 

Here yield thy balm, once smitten Rock ; 

Bloom fresh again, sweet Rod ; 
As cloud and pillar led the ark. 

So let thy light, O God, 
Forever shining in this place, 

Our Leader's love reveal ; 
And daily miracles of grace 

His benediction seal. 



POEM, 

Written for the 90th birth-day of Kcv. Ira Pearson, of Newiiort. 

These ninety years ! What magic pen 

Their histor}- can trace, 
Bring back their vanished youth again, 

Give each its wonted place ! 



602 POETS OF NEW HAMP8HIBE. 

"Within that deep, unfathomed sea 

That buries all the past, 
Like snow-flakes falling silently, 

Their full, rich life is cast. 

Far, far beneath the tidal wave, 

Beneath the passing storm, 
Lie dreams of youth, the bright, the brave, 

And hopes that gave them form. 

In that still depth no current moves, 

The billows lie asleep. 
And early griefs and buried loves 

A sacred silence keep. 

Like precious beads, from shining braid . 

Or broken rosarj^ 
With mocking glitter they evade 

The grasp of memory. 

But in the old man's heart, a power 

Above decay or blight. 
Pure trust in God, a precious dower, 

Still glows with quenchless light. 

There stainless honor dwells with love. 
And truth, a constant guest. 

While peace, o'erbrooding like a dove. 
Builds safe her sheltered nest. 

Hope anchors there within the vail, 

And faith in things unseen 
Unfurls her eager, winged sail, 

And skims the gulf between. 

As pearls are crystallized from pain, 

So silent, humble tears. 
The dews of gratitude, remain 

Enshrined within these j'ears. 

Thanksgivings of the humble poor. 
Heart oflerings of the blest. 

Upon his head, now silvered o'er, 
In benediction rest. 

His tender ministry of grace 
. Flows on, unchecked by time ; 
In man}' a loving heart, we trace 
Its silent force sublime. 



HELEN MAE BEAN. 003 



In Indian-summer's waiting calm, 

He reaps the aftermath 
Of all the past ; its treasured balm 

Sheds, fragrance o'er his path. 

Long past the fervid heat of noon, 

With mellow fruitage rife. 
He welcomes heaven's sweet, restful boon, 

The evening-time of life. 

As slow the weary sun goes down. 

The stars of heaven appear, 
The cross recedes, the jewelled crown 

Of glory draweth near. 



Mrs. Bean is a native of Hopkinton. Slie is the ilaiigliter of the late William H. 
Smart, M. D., for many years a practising physician of Concord. She lived in 
Concord until her marriage, since which time her home has been in Boston. Her 
Bummers have been lor many years spent in Swampscott, Mass. 



WAITING. 

While waiting for thee near the tall elm-tree. 
The song of a bird came floating to me. 
Enraptured I sat, and I listened long, 
As she poured forth her soul in a wondrous song. 
And then, like a Hash from the throat of the bird, 
A quick, eager call to her mate I heard. 

Caressingly soft, 

She repeated it oft, 

"Sweet, sweet. 

Come to me, sweet." 

A moment she listened, then called again. 
Then she sang as before — a soul-stirring strain, 
With never a doubt and never a fear, 
There was faith in her voice so thrilling and clear ; 
Not long does she wait, for lo ! while she sings, 
Comes an answering note and a flash of wings, — 

An answering note 

From a tree far remote 

"Sweet, sweet ; 

I'm coming, sweet." 



604 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

When he flew to the tree and found her there, 
Such a burst of melod}' filled the air ; 
Such happiness gushed from their tuneful throats ; 
Such ripples of laughter, such ga}', merry notes ! 
In their sweet bird language I heard them sa_y, 
"We're the happiest birds in the world to-da}." 

Again and again 

Came the tender refrain, 

"Sweet, sweet, 

To love is sweet." 

I sang with the birds in the morning clear 

The song that ni}' darling loved best to hear ; 

With never a doubt and never a care, 

My heart was as light as the fresh morning air ; 

I called like the bird in the tall elm-tree, 

"I am waiting, m}" dearest, waiting for thee." 

Caressingly soft, 

I repeated it oft — 

"Sweet, sweet. 

Come to me, sweet." 

But my heart grows faint as the day wears on. 
The gladsome light of the morning is gone. 
And a mist creej>s up from the cold gray cea, 
In its chilling embrace it is folding me ; 
I call and I listen and wait in vain. 
With a burning thirst and a hungr}^ pain ; 

And m}^ eager tone 

Has changed to a moan, 

"Sweet, sweet. 

Where art thou, sweet?" 



YESTERDAY AND TO-DAY. 

YESTERDAY. 

A clovid rose up in the far-off west. 
And with thick folds covered the sun ; 

With sombre garments the earth was dressed, 
And the heavens were gloomy and dun. 

A mist came up o'er the dull gray sea 
And covered the earth Ijke a shroud ; 



HELEN MAE BEAN. 605 

Compassionate nature sorrowed with rae, 
For m}' heart with anguish was bowed. 

She veiled the gladsome blue of the skies 

And put on a garment of serge ; 
The tears fell fast from her pitying e3'cs, 

And the sea sang a mournful dirge. 

The gay birds hushed their songs in the trees, 
And the heads of the flowers drooped low, 

With infinite pity sigh^'d the breeze, 

And the hours dragged heavy and slow. 

"My life is dreary and full of pain," 

In m}' despairing grief, I said, 
''No whisper of love will come again ; 

He is false — or — he must be — dead." 

TO-DAY. 

"Shake out, O sea, your skirts of light. 

With shimmer of silver and flash of gold ; 
And deck your bosom with jewels briglit. 
And all your wonderful beauties unfold !" 
And the bright waves danced 

With the maddest glee, 
As tlie sunlight glanced 
O'er the jewelled sea. 

"And sing, O birds, with tuneful throats, 

A song of jo}' and thanksgiving with me ; 
Pour fortli your gladdest, merriest notes. 
And fill all the air with sweet harmony !" 
And the ga}- birds sang 

From the topmost tree. 
Till the whole earth rang 
With their melody. 

"Rejoice, day god, from on high. 

And cover all nature with glor}- new ; 
Let the fair glad earth and sea and sky 
Kejoice with me, for my darling is true !" 
And the bright sun beamed 

From the heaven's clear blue. 
Till the whole world seemed 
Created anew. 



606 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 



iWats m. i|. I^atcl). 



Mra. Hatch, whose name previous to marriage was Piatt, is a native of Northumljer- 
lauil, her present residence. She was educated at Lancaster Academy, and at lier 
home, reciting her French, rhetoric, and astronomy lessons to her mother, and her 
lessons, in Latin, to a learned but improvident hired man of her father. At the age of 
nineteen she began to write for the press. Her writings are mostly in prose. In 1871 
she was married, and migrated from one farm-house to another. The poems of 
Mrs. Hatch have been published mostly in the Portland Transcript, and much cop- 
ied by other papers. Her Temperance Pieces, which are two poems of considerable 
length, were copied, says au editor, into more than twenty of his exchanges. 



ONE BY ONE. 

One by one the days go by, One by one are battles fought, 

One by one our darlings die ; One by one are great deeds 

Budding hopes and waning day, wrought ; 

One by one they fade away. Kingdoms, heroes, deeds and all, 

^ , , One by one they rise and fall. 

One by one the seasons pass, 

Frost and snow, and flower and One by one come smiles and tears, 
grass ; Hopes and sorrows, joys and 

Twig by twig the birdlings build, fears ; 

Drop by drop the brooks are Year by year our lives are told, 
filled. IStep by step we near the fold. 



THE WEARY SOWER. 

"My seed fell always on the stony ground," 

She sadly said. 

Then bowed her weary head ; 
"I cannot ask my Father for a crown, 
When I go hence, nor hear the words 'well done, 
Come unto me and rest from toil, dear one.' 

"At early dawn, I went forth with the rest, 

To do my task ; 

I never paused to ask 
If it were light or hard, but did m}' best ; 
Now night has come, and I have sadl}' found 
My seed fell always on the ston}- ground. 

"The happy, careless toilers by my side, 

With heedless hand. 

Cast o'er the waiting land 
Their sprouting, vernal seedlings far and wide ; 
Back came to them rich blossoms fair and bright, 
While mine, fallen amid stones, had suffered blight. 

"It is so hard to die and be forgot ; 
But harder yet 
To know that they forget, 



MAIiT E. P. HATCH. fiQ? 

Because no noble deed I ever wrought ; 

I tried, but all too soon the night cume round 

And found mj^ seed sown on the stony ground." 

A gentle spirit hovering in the air, 

Hearing, drew near, 

And whispered in her ear, 
"Dear heart, the Lord would not have thee despair, 
He knows thy toil, thy sorrow, and thy love ; 
The seed thou'st sown hath blossomed up above." 



COUNT YOUR MERCIES. 

When the clouds of heaven lower, 

And the rain is falling fast, 
O remember in this hour 

That the storm won't alwa3's last ; 
Just sit down and count the mercies 

That have blessed you day by day ; 
Think that sunlight can't be falling" 

All the time across your way. 

If you're poor j'ou've surel}- some one 

That is daily loving you ; 
If no children, if no parent. 

Then a friend who's kind and true. 
Poor, when you have earth's best treasures, 

Love and friendship ? Can j-ou care 
For the fleeting joys of riches? 

Count your mercies ; you've your share. 

If 3'ou're friendless, just consider 

You've a mighty Friend to love ; 
If you're poor, you can have treasures. 

Rich and rare, laid up above ; 
If j'our nearest and 3'our dearest 

Has gone out beyond your sight. 
Think he'll be the hrst to greet you 

In that land which hath no night. 

Rain must fall in ever}^ measure. 

Ever}' heart must have its grief; 
Storms are rising, hopes are shipwrecked, 

Waves dash high on every reef. 
Though the blinding tears are falling. 

Count your mercies, count them true ; 
Ah ! dear heart, you'll lind bright jewels 

Have been meted out to you. 



608 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

PATRICK'S LETTER. 

I've a mother in ould Ireland, 

Though I fear me she is dead ; 
For the dreadful tale of famine 

Makes my heart sink down like lead. 
They tell me Ireland's starving, 

That the crops have failed to pa}^, 
And but few have any praties — 

Let alone the mate and tay. 

It's a year now since I left her 

For to cross the stormy say ; 
And she blissed her boy at parting, 

Saying "don't forgit to pray !" 
So I've prayed to Virgin Mary 

And to man}' a blissid saint 
For luck to come to Ireland ; 

But now my heart is faint. 

O, I see my poor ould mother 

As she looked upon that day 
With her dim old eyes a-weeping. 

And her face so worn and grey. 
"Shure w^e'll live like quanes and princes," 

Said she, when ni}' grief she see ; 
"And I'll sell the pig and shanty 

When you send the word for me." 

I'd niver left my mother 

But I heard such fine big pay 
Might be had for jist the asking, 

In the land beyond the saj'. 
I've sint my earnings to her, 

But I've niver heard a word ; 
And I'm feared she not's a-living 

Since the dreadful news I've heard. 

Please write to Ireland, mister, 

Jist a little, little bit, 
And ask if Mis' Maloney 

Is alive, and if she's writ. 
Say, since the dreadful famine 

That my heart has been like lead, 
Say "write to your son Patrick, 

If its thrue that you are dead." 



AS VILLA ALMIBA WOOD WAS D. 



609 



Erbilla Elmira SSiootitoattr. 

Miss Woodward was born in Swanzey, April 4, 1840. She was educated at New 

Ipswich *""■■'""" «...!„* XT 1 /TTl S T7^ ._ ^ ..... . 




THINKING. 

Through the leaves of gold and puq^le 

Slow the sun is sinking ; 
Fetlock deep within tlie river, 

Stand the cattle drinking ; 
On the bridge above the mill-stream, 

Rests the maiden — thinking. 

Nut-brown hair that mocks the sunset 

Witli the golden gleaming, 
Hands above the picture folded, 

With the graceful seeming • 
Of an antique, sculptured Nereid 

By a fountain dreaming. 

As a tender thought had swayed, 

O'er the stream she's leaning ; 
While her red lips curve and quiver 

With a sudden meaning, 
And a quick nod shakes her ringlets, 

All her features screening. 

For there comes a sound of laughter, 

And a merry cheering ; 
And the cattle turn their faces 

To a step that's nearing — 
And she waits for words low spoken 

In a tone endearing. 

Now behind the western tree-tops 

Low the sun is sinking ; 
Toward the bridge the weary cattle 
^ Turn themselves from drinking — ■ 

Ah ! they never guessed, as I did, 

What the maid was thinking. 

(George 13anrroft C^ritft'tt). 

Geo n. Griffith was I)orn Feltruary 28, 1841, in Nowburyport, Jfass. He was c<l 
ucatcd at Dununer Academy, IJylield, Mass. At the age of eighteen, at bis own 
option, he cntcii'd a store in his native city as a clerk. Two years altorwards he 
went to Haverhill, Mass., and was married to a New nampsliire lady, Miss Anna 



GlO FOETS OF NEW HAIIPSHIBE. 



S. ilowe of Bradford. Shortly after the breaking out of the Rebellion, Mr. Grif- 
fith enlisted and was stationed, with the exception of a few months of service in 
the defence of Washington, at Fort Constitution near Portsmouth. Here he be- 
gan to write for Boston and New York pulilications, and several of his poems ap- 
peared iu the Portsmouth Joiirnal. Alter being mustered from the U. S. service 
he removed in 1871, to Newport, and soon engaged in the lumber business in an 
adjoining town. At a later date he removed to East Lempster, where he purchased 
a line residence for a permanent home. Mr. Griffith is gaining much pecuniary 
reward for his literary labors. He is now engaged as a contributor, both in prose 
and verse, to many of the leading periodicals of the day. A volume of his poems 
is soon to be published. 

THE WEBSTER HOMESTEAD. 

Embowered amid the charms of May 
I saw his boyhood's home one day, — 

That cottage brown ; 
' The granite mount that bears his name, 
An emblem of enduring fame. 

Looked calmly down. 

The chain of bills was shining clear, 
Those lofty peaks to Webster dear 

In other years ; 
Above me arched the same blue skies 
On which he gazed with partial eyes. 

Suffused with tears. 

Sweet clover rippled in the breeze, 
The sun hung o'er the apple-trees 

A shield of gold ; 
The meadow brook in silence flowed. 
And white flocks fed beside the road, 

Far from the fold. 

A single cloud hung low remote, 
Like fleecy veil did slowly float 

O'er blooming dell. 
But fairer far than all to me 
The stately, fragrant old elm-tree 

And mossy well ! 

By honored sire, with greatest care, 
That spreading tree was planted there 

Long years ago ; 
His hand set up the ancient sweep 
(Long may its ashen fibres keep !) 

And curb below. 

How oft beneath its cooling shade, 
In pure delight, has Webster laid 
And watched the sky ; 



GEOBGE BANCROFT GEIFFITff. 01 1 



How oft by that fern-bordered brink 
The might}- statesman stopped to drink, 
In years gone liy ! 

Once, wlien his fleeting days were few, 
He for a friend that huclvct drew, 

And said to liim, 
"Sweeter than Hybla's lione}- this !" 
Then quaffed a cup and left a kiss 

Upon its rim ! 

"We bless his kind sire's memory ! 
Long may the roots of that green tree 

Be fast and sure ! 
Long may that well-curb stand aiiove ; 
New Hampshire's sons its waters love, 

And keep them pure ! 



THE STORM AT FORT POINT. 

January 4th, 1868. 

As did the plumes of Erin's giant race. 

Now toss the scented pines of ancient Rye ! 

By roused Boreas shook like lightest fleece ; 
And, as a pall, gloom darkens all the sky. 

Maine's seaward trend, a vast, sharp-pointed ledge. 
Like a Leviathan with teeth all bare. 

Dripping the foam of his stupendous rage, 
Dares the Storm Spirit of the sea and air ! 

Lashing the bosom of the maddened Ocean, 

The wind sweeps inland with a deaf'ning roar — 

Lo ! with terribly sublime commotion 

The mighty billows thunder on the shore ! 

Dense vapor has engulphed the Isles of Shoals ; 

But dimly Whale's-Back light-house can I sec, 
Whicii Ocean as a little to}' enfolds. 

And fain would egg- like crush its masonry ! 

One craft belated, at the river's mouth. 

Drifts swiftly leeward with its anchors down ; 

God save it from the tempest's awful wrath, 
For powerless looks on the anxious town ! 

Awe-paled I crouch beneath the old Fort's wall, 
The salt spray dashing to my very feet, 



612 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Yea ! up the granite cliffs and over all 

Tlie sea-side roofs it leaps, one blinding sheet ! 

The massive derricks groan and madly fling 
Their arms against the shoulders of the blast ; 

The wire-rope gu^^s like yielding hempen swing. 
But the north scarp-wall standeth grim and fast ! 

Yes ! spite the Storm-King's strong artillery 
Of ceaseless hail and sleet that loudly raves, — 

More dreaded still, its trooping cavahy, 

White-capped and merciless, the thun'drous waves ! 

Firm as the eternal rocks, to the seaward 
From its embrasures the unfinished Fort, 

Though Ocean 'whelms, still looks stern and froward, 
Careless of e'en the earthquake's dread report ! 



THE DATE-GARDEN OF THE DESERT. 

Faint and athirst, in arid wastes astray, 

Wandered an Arab, parted from his band, 
Who reached an herbless spot at close of day, 

Where cooling moisture rose amid the sand. 
Though weak and weary, to his arm-pits deep 

The pilgrim scooped the sand that wetter grew ; 
Then, hopeful, laid him down to rest and sleep. 

And round his aching limbs his mantle drew. 

At early dawn, with trembling form he rose. 

And, lo ! the basin he at twilight made 
Mirrored the sun, and, strengthened by repose, 

He quaflTed the fountain, and his thir.-.t allaj'ed. 
"Allah be praised !" he sang with bounding heart, 

And from his scanty store of dates he ate ; 
Both man and beast, with strength renewed, depart. 

And reach their tribe where shifting sands abate. 

One seed alone that morn unnoticed fell. 

One kernel of their fruit in that small pool. 
Whose sleeping germ awoke in its lone cell, 

A tiny rootlet kept b}' moisture cool. 
Behold ! its fibrous threads sink slowly down, 

A little stem arose, and leaves took form ; 
And featheiy fans unfold a lovely crown, 

And cap a palm-tree daring heat and storm. 



GEOIt GE BAyCIi OFT GBIFFITH. fi 1 3 

Its tuft of living greenness nodded high, 

Its blossoming clusters perfumed all the waste ; 
IMajestic, pierced the unimpeded sky, 

And beckoned all that saw to thither haste. 
Far over that secluded, boundless plain. 

Its sweets exhaled to lure all living things, 
Till, midst its foliage finding rest again. 

Swift birds of passage folded weary wings. 

Its ripening fruits, like rubied gems of gold, 

From luscious bunches hung on ever}- limb ; 
There insects hummed, and life grew manifold : 

From manv nests was breathed the birdling's hymn, 
And glossy' vines and brilliant shrul.)s soon wound 

Their loving bands around the tall, strong tree ; 
Young palms arose, and o'er the naked ground 

Coarse grasses crept, and twining growths swung free. 

VjVQ long the shadows of a little wood 

Shut out the scorching beams of lurid sun, 
Where panting antelopes unfrighted stood, — 

God's timid creatures gathered one by one. 
The swift gazelle and ostrich daily fed 

On tender buds and herbage fresh and green ; 
The golden-hammer tapped all day o'erhead, 

Nor aught disturbed the beaut}' of the scene. 

So years slipped I)}' ; and he who dropped the date 

Within the hollow of the lonely vale, 
Among his children's children sadh" sate, 

With age and sorrow drooping, wan and pale ; 
While hostile tribes annoyed the kindred sore. 

And drouth had withered all the sward around. 
He called a council, and long pondered o'er 

How some relief from many ills be found. 

A sudden gleam lit all his rugged face, 

And lifted as a cloud his load of care ; 
He sent his sons to that lone garden place. 

To see if trace of moisture still was there ; — 
That vale so precious in the long ago. 

When death was baffled by the fount that flowed 
From those wet sands, — and, bowing faint and low. 

Once more he asked God's blessing, oft bestowed. 

Lo ! thev return with shouts and hurried tramp, 

''Haste ! haste," they cry, "to that most blest retreat! 



G14 POETS OF NEW HA3IP8HIRE. 

Yea, b}' to-morrow eve we may encamp 
In earthly Eden, refuge fruitful, sweet !" 

The tears ran streaming from the old man's eyes,— 
"See what a kernel has produced," he said, 

"For our deliverance ! I pray you prize 

And lay me 'neath that palm when 1 am dead !" 



THE CHIME IN THE ANDES. 

On evergreen cactus the ring-dove sits swaying, 
Her nestward flight checking till vespers are o'er ; 

'Neath cinnabar image, now chanting, now praying. 
The throng passes quickly through San Rosa's door. 

What tremulous joy fills the ancient rotunda 

As the clear convent bell strikes peal upon peal ! 

E'en the awe-stricken tourist stands gazing in wonder. 
While o'erladen bondsmen with reverence kneel. 

The call of the partridge is hushed in the barley, 
The humming-bird settles upon the first spray ; 

The peach-dealing Creole no longer will parley, — 
She kneels by her basket to silently \n-^y. 

No more by the roadside her chica drink selling, 
The fair Guayaquil tempts all with her eye ; 

Those white fingers now are her rosar}' telling. 
She hears the rich chimes of the vespers float by ! 

With hoe dropped beside them, 'midst canebrakes are kneeling 

The poor devotee and his Indian bride ; 
And miners their burden, as upward comes pealing 

The summons for vespers, fling quickly aside. 

The swift arriere, his mail-horn uplifting. 

The glacier crowned Andes to wake with the blast, 

Hears the chime of the evening on fleecy clouds drifting, 
And waits till the last faintest echo has passed. 

The restless Inaja, that torrent- fed river. 

Subdues its wild rushing a moment to hear 
The soft, whispered cadence that breathes of our Saviour, 

There nightl}' repeated, yet evermore dear ! 

Where'er the last rays of the sunset yet linger, 

O'er valley or table-land glimmering far, — 
On lofty peak pointing its golden-tipped finger. 

Where gloweth night's censer, the bright evening star ; 



MAB Y ELIZABETH UOBBS. 615 

The mellow sound rises, its music prevailing, 
And circles round pyramids evermore white ; 

To soften the voice of the lone pine bewailing, 
And die in the arms of the slow-fading light ! 



TWILIGHT. 

Lone watcher, I lingered, on hill-top benighted, 

As dreaming lay beautiful valle}' below ; 
Above me the star-sprinkled sk}-, dimly lighted, 

And westward the jewels of sunset aglow. 

A ribbon of silver encircled the mountain. 

And, rising like incense from altars of pra3'er, 

JMists pure as the drops from the baptismal fountain, 
Glowed, shimmered, and faded on wings of the air ! 

Lo ! green-walled Ascntney night's purple had tinted, 
His forehead cloud-hooded and silvered by time ; 

From summit to summit the rosy haze i)rinted 
The rich, tender smile of a tropical clime ! 

The Pleiades, fondly their silver braids twining, 
On night's placid brow set their jewels once more ; 

Not a sound stirred the air save the owlet repining, 
Or white heron piping its note on the shore. 

O'er calm lake encircled, of summer-time dreaming, 
The woods hung their banners of frost-smitten leaves ; 

The red shield of Mars from his blue tent was gleaming. 
And evening winds siglied through the harps of the sheaves 

Ah ! day and night's nuptials were viewless lips singing ; 

The star of the evening, the planet of love. 
As bride'smaid, her censer of glory was swinging. 

While smiled her attendants and beckoned above ! 

Sandalplion, majestic, as bridegroom preparing, 
His llower-wreathed feet on a ladder of gold. 

Ten thousands of stars in the gladness are sharing. 
And Saturn's bright fingers the wedding-rings hold. 



Mrs. Hobbs, formerly Miss Mary E. Erwln, was born in Bethany, N. T., June 21, 
1841. She was educated at Hethan.y Afadoiny, and Gary Collegiate Seminary, In 
her native state. She was for some time nicmhcr of the editorial staff of 'Wood's 
Household Mag-aziiie, publislied at N\'\\i)in'f;, N. Y. In 1S78 she liecame the wife 
of .losiah Ilnwjiril llotihs, a lawyer, of Madison, where they reside at the present 
time. Mrs. lloblis has the true "poetic nature. She keenly appreciates the heanti- 
ful and joyous iiliotit her. The poems here given are copied from the American 
Rural ll'oihe, a literary paper of which she was a contributor. 



6 1 6 POETS OF NE W HAMP8HIBE. 

JUNE. 

Month of my heart ! with what a growth of green 

Thou comest to the garland of the year ! 
What snows have sifted, storms have swept between 

The June long vanished and the June now here ! 
What wealth of faded foliage beneath 

Thy feet, forgotten, lies in earth entombed — 
Sweet flowers on which the dving year did breathe, 

Half opened petals, buds that never bloomed ! 

And from the ashes of the buried year 

Spring, phoenix-like, the glories of to-day ; 
The vernal wrappings that thy forests wear. 

The star-strewn emerald of tin' carpet gay. 
For thee alone the opening roses blush, 

And breathe their fragrance out in man}' a sigh ; 
The listless air grows heavy with the hush, 

And wooing zephyrs faint in ecstasy. 

I hail th}' coming ; and a gladder song 

Goes up from everj^ warbler of the plain ; 
For greener trees and bluer skies belong 

To thee than any follower in thy train. 
The rustling of thy leafy robes I heard 

In the soft music of the April showers. 
And caught the far off trill of coming bird. 

And breathed the fragrance of thine unborn flowers. 

And thou art here ! I feel it in the lull 

That steals o'er nature's bounding pulse to-day ; 
The spring retires and leaves the summer full 

Of brimming beauty, dauntless of decay. 
I hear thy presence in the whispering air, 

The lifting leaf, the honey-bee's low tune, 
The drowsy hum of insects everj^where ; 

The world is full of thee, O peerless June 1 



DIS-ILLUSION. 

The world is a-glint and a-glorj' to day, — 

Coruscant, in armor of ice. 
Not a rock-rooted tree, not a quivering spra}'', 

But is caught in the cr3'stal device ; 
Not a bramble, or weed, howe'er humble and mean. 
But, touched and transfigured, belongs to the scene. 



MAB Y E LIZ ABE TH HO BBS. 6 1 7 



No last summer leaflet forgetting to fall, 

No seed left alone in its blight, 
No wind haunted husk of its gold emptied all, 

But is glorified now in our sight, — 
With pendant and sparkle and splendor, I ween, 
As earth never saw in such scintillant sheen. 

Through orchard and forest, and wild tangled wood, 

Stretch arches and arches awa^' 
Of crystal and coral and pearl, in the flood 

Of deepest and down-pouring da}' ; 
While the high hidden glory of heaven appears 
All flashing, reflected from earth's frozen tears. 

A sigh of the south wind, a kiss of the sun 
Sends thrill alter thrill through the scene. 

Of swift disenchantment, whose dalliance done, 
How vanisheth shimmer and sheen ; 

But they bid us believe it a prescient spell 

That on tendril and tree doth their fruitage foretell. 

And life has its glamour, its glint and its gold. 
Through the touch of a crystalline spell. 

When, with heart all a-hush, it leans out of its hold. 
Unfettered, o'er shackle and cell ; 

When through the mirage of its own stormy tears, 

The guerdon, the glory, the respite appears. 

The sweep of the past takes the tint of to-day 
Through the crystallized atom of time, 

And it touches the years so receding and gray 
With the glint of a garment sublime ; 

Past, present and future, — one infinite whole. 

Flashes in on the sight of the halo-held soul. 

No far-stalking shadow, no cloud lurking low, 

No dark day of all, set apart, 
Iso moment of time with its measureless woe 

Held close in the crucified heart, — 
But, transfigured with glory, is crowned from afar 
With the promise and peace of the Bethlehem star. 

Life takes up its tragedies tearless and calm, 

Reviewing each anguish again. 
Beholding a beauty and breathing a balm, 

Where blight and bereavement had been ; 
While the rock and tlie wreck of earth's treacherous tiile 

Alike are re-quickened, alike glorified. 



(') 1 8 POETS OF NEW HAMP8HIBE. 



A breath of the real may shiver the scene, 
May melt with iconoclast touch 

The miracle-frostwork that trembles between 
Life's infinite little and much ; 

But the soul will lean back to its burdens again 

More patient and pure, for each exquisite pain. 



MISERERE. 

With lifted brow and sea-blown hair she sits 

Beside the open casement in the gold 
Of earl}' evening, and there hardly flits 

A flake of sail on ocean's bosom bold 
But she descries it, with that far-ofl" gaze 

That gathers dreams delusive in her eyes, 
Those eyes that wear a depth of other days, 

A past, which all the present underlies. 

Forgetful she of this her gilded home. 

Its proud appointments, and its stately lord, 
Forgotten too, as well, each olden tome 

Of storied ancestry, or quite ignored. 
Her soul leans sobbing out upon the sea, 

The faithless sea, that brought no relic back 
Of all it bore awa}', so mockingly. 

Beyond the proud ship's evanescent track. 

Alas ! alas ! that all tliose years went b}'. 

Nor washed ashore for her, one shred of sail ! 
Alas ! alas ! that pride and power should sigh 

Around her path, at last with such avail. 
Her ashen lips essayed to whisper "yes ;" 

Her hand was given, but her heart was gone ; 
Nor yearning hope, nor gnaAving grief could guess 

The mystery that wrapped the absent one. 

And now from him whose ways are stern and cold. 

Whose tones are bitter, and whose words unkind, 
She turns awa}', and hates the verj' gold 

Whose heavy links her bleeding pinions bind. 
She hears the sea-gull screaming from afar, 

The curlew's cr}' is music to her ears, 
And just beyond the hazy harbor bar, 

To her fond eye a fancied sail appears. 

The vision deepens to a real bliss 

That wipes awa}- those waiting-years of pain. 



CHABLE8 CEASE L OBD. (] 1 ;» 

When on hei- quivering lips the olden kiss 

Comes back with him she welcomes home again. 

The brooding sliadows built her little cot 

On some lone crag beside the sobbing sea, 

"Where loving eyes (long closed in ocean-grot!) 
Look into hers and question tenderl}'. 

Nor tone, nor step breaks in upon her dream, 

Till her cold hands are thrilled by the caress 
Of bab3--fingers, and two brigiit eyes gleam 

Star-like across the gulf of her distress ; 
Quick to her hungr}' heart the nestling head 

Is gathered, and again the dream goes on, — 
Another's child her fond arms fold instead. 

Her home another's, he the absent one. 

Alas ! for her who dreams beneath the gloam 

"With shadowy eyes of ocean-borrowed blue ; 
Alas ! for him whose cold, unhallowed home 

AVears not one love-link tenderly and true. 
Peace, peace to liini, who 'neath the warring waves 

Went down to dreams more tranquil and serene 
Than theirs who hopeless watch beside the graves, 

The livino; graves of all that might have been. 



C. C. Lord was born in South Berwick, Me., JulyT, 1S41, but before he attained to 
reeollection his parents removed to Newmarket, and in 1841) the fandly ajcain re- 
moved to llopkinton, wliere tlie home has been most of the time since, lie was e<l- 
ucated'at tlie Hopkinton, and Seabrook academies, and spent a brief time in the 
Methodist Biblical Institute at Conciird, beinjf at that lime a licentiate of tlie 
JJaptist church. He nltimately became a ]ireacher of the doctrines of S\ve<lenborjf, 
occupyiniT pulpits in Contoocook, Nortli Bridfjewater, Mass., and Riverhead, N. \ . 
In l^'tiw he was ordained a missionary, or minister without formal settlement, at 
Orange, N. J. His work as a preacher was very much curtailed by tiodily illness, 
wliile, in the end, his tendencies to speculative methods occasioned his voluntary 
abnegation of a part of the Swcdcnborgian pliilosophical system and a conscciuent 
al)andonment of the pulpit of the New Church in 1870. For the past ten years lu- 
has preached only a few sermons, but has given prominence to journalistic and 
literary pursuits. Mr. Lord has written but a few poems, all of them brief and 
somewhat unique in couceptiou. 



FLEUR DE LIS. 

While strolling in a meadow green, 

Enchanted by the summer light, 
I spied my heart's itleal queen, 

Arrayed in robes of purest white ; 
I saw her shining tresses phn", 

Her beaming face tlie breezes fanned, 
And, looking sweet as blooming May, 

She held an iris in her hand. 



G20 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Such charms she wore as daze the ej^e, 

And fill the heart with curious dread, 
Awhile it longs its fate to try, 

And test her love, as on she sped ; 
Desire to join her on her way 

Perplexed my heart, which leaped to see, 
AYhile I was doubting if I ma}", 

She waved her iris unto me. 

Together through the mead we stra3'ed. 

Till, where a mound with moss was grown. 
And sheltered by a grateful shade, 

I longed to claim her for m}" own ; 
My heart grew bold that happy day, 

Nor will I tell you all the rest, — 
B}' sign, inditing that I may, 

She gave her iris to my breast. 



HEROISM. 

I love the rare tradition, told 

Of that old Roman, staunch and grand, 
AVhose son, by war's relentless hand. 

Lay dead ; and, viewing, stiff and cold, 

The lifeless corse, the father spoke 

Such words of stately grace and pride. 
That nobler ne'er of all beside 

Out of the depths of anguish broke : 

"Welcome, m}' son, who willing lent 
A public hand and shed thy blood ; 
I contemplate the glorious flood. 

And count thy wounds magnificent ! 

"Since war divides the state of Rome, 
My face confused with shame would glow. 
If neither cloud nor shade of woe 

Had dimmed the sunshine of my home." 

Thus he, in nobleness elate, 

Expressed the type and element 
Of social worth and true intent 

That dignified the Roman state. 

We contemplate the ancient days. 
Of savage aims and kindred deeds, 
And bless the Power that kindly leads 

Our willing feet in gentler ways ; 



CEABLES CHASE LOBD. 021 

Nor yet renounce a pride to own 

The man of true and honest heart, 

Who freely takes a common part, 
Nor ever thinks of self, alone. 

A hero he of modern times, 

AV^ho, lending ear to public cares, 

A sympathetic burden bears. 
Nor recks the cost in cents and dimes. 

In him the blush of sliame will burn, 

If hapl\' common griefs abound. 

And he has neither sorrow found, 
Nor felt misfortune in his turn ; 

Or if some urgent hour has come. 

And he disclosed no zeal to rise 

And grasp a loyal victor's prize. 
Or seize the crown of martyrdom, 

Though careless he of idle fame, 

His works to deeper chords appeal 

In kindred souls, who own and feel 
An inspiration in his name ; 

And when grim death his face debars 

From human eyes, a thankful praise 

Repeats his name, recalls his daj's, 
And writes his memoir in the stars. 



THE ROBE OF WHITE. 

I see a thousand forms that tr}-. 
By varied hues, to lure m}- sight, 

But keep m}- praise for one I spy 
That glories in a robe of white. 

This one, as coming from the sphere 
Of sacred love and holy light, 

Appears in mould select and dear. 
Outlining of the robe of white. 

The visions glide and leave no trace 
Or fond impress of being bright, 

Save this that bears angelic grace. 
And wears a spotless robe of white. 

I often wonder why the mien 
And aspect of a radiant sprite 



622 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 



Forever and for aye is seen, 
Apparelled in a robe of white ; 

And wh}' this ardor of the heart 
To gaze, nor turning left nor right, 

And fain ignore compounded art, 
To dote upon a robe of white. 

Sometimes a fanc}' of the mind 
Conceives of some celestial height 

Attained within, its worth to find 
Evolvent in a robe of white ; 

And then I apprehend some tone 
And fervor of an inward plight, 

That knows some accent of its own 
Responsive to a robe of white. 

I cannot see whereby the spell, 
That never seemeth old or trite. 

The force conserves to alwaj^s dwell 
Upon a simple robe of white ; 

But know its mystic skill to prove 
The measure of a fond delight. 

And adoration deep to move, 
Reflecting on a robe of white. 

I deem this transport m^j endure 
The while my soul foregoes its flight, 

M}^ theme submissive to the pure 
Enchantment of the robe of white ; 

And when I bid farewell the day, 
To hasten to the shades of night, 

Would crave for love another ray 
Of greeting from the robe of white. 



Enuic 23oug(as Mobinscn. 

Mrs. Annie Douglas Robinson, formerly Miss Green, known in literature a? ISf.'ir- 
iau Douglas, is a native of Plymouth, and a resident of Bristol. Her poems have ir- 
regularly and infrequently appeared in many different magazines hut she is best 
and most willingly known as a writer of poetry for children. Two volumes, I'ir- 
ture Poems and Peter and Polly, a prose story, were published by Osgood and Co. 



DORCAS. 

The honest heart may well be proud 
An honest tear to shed ; 



ANNIE DOUGLAS EOBINSON. G23 

With loving hand I sew her shroud ; 
The good old soul is dead. 

She died as she had lived — alone ; 

We foinid her — not one trace 
Of the last fearful passion shown 

B}- her dear withered face. 

Reproach, regret, were all in vain ; 

'Twas like her so to die, 
As if to save our hearts the pain 

Of bidding her good-b}-. 

How poor and plain she used to be ! 

How generous and how kind ! 
She left a blessed memory 

And three black gowns, behind. 

The little place she used to rent 

Will be a lonely spot ; 
A certain grace her presence lent 

To house and garden-plot. 

The children swung upon her gate 

And watched her apples fall. 
And still, like some benignant fate, 

She smiled upon them all. 

The roses on her window tree 

Were plucked before the}' bloomed ; 
And lavender and sanctity 

Her quiet rooms perfumed. 

She rests, at last, from pain and woe ; 

She sees God's perfect will ; 
And yet, though free from care, I know 

She must be busy still. 

Perchance, while through the golden air 

The heavcnl}' music swells, 
She shows some little angel where 

To find the asphodels. 

Or, sent with mercies from the skies 

To comfort souls unblest, 
She flies, (iod's bird of paradise, 

On wings that cannot rest. 



G24 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

Glad be her flight ! She rises o'er 
The cloud that round us lowers ; 

The tears shall fill her eyes no more 
That gather fast in ours. 



THE YELLOW COTTAGE. 

Mid fields with useless daisies white, 

Between a river and a wood, 

With not another house in sight. 

The low-roofed yellow cottage stood. 

Where I, 

Long years ago, a little maid. 

Through all life's rosy morning played. 

No other child the region knew ; 

M}' only playmate was myself. 

And all our books, a treasured few, 

Were gathered on a single shelf; 

But, oh ! 

Not wealth a king might prize could be 

What those old volumes were to me ! 

On winter nights, beside the fire. 

In summer, sitting in the door, 

I turned, with love that did not tire, 

Their well-worn pages o'er and o'er ; 

In me, 

Though sadly fallen it is true, 

Their heroines all lived anew ! 

One da}', about my neck a ruff 

Of elder flowers with fragrant breath, 

I was, with conscious pride enough 

To suit the part, Elizabeth ; 

The next. 

Ensnared by many wily plots, 

I sighed, the hapless Queen of Scots ! 

Where darting swallows used to flit. 

Close to me on some jutting rocks, 

Above the river, I would sit 

For hours and wreathe my yellow locks, 

And trill 

A child's shrill song, and, singing, play 

It was a siren's witching lay. 



ANNIE DOUGLAS ROBINSON. 625 

On Sundays, underneath tlie tree 

That overhung the orchard wall, 

While watching, one by one, to see 

The ripe, sweet apples fall, 

I tried 

M}^ very best to make believe 

I was in Eden and was Eve ! 

Oh, golden hours ! when I, to-da3', 

"Would make a truce with care, 

Ko more of queens, in bright arraj-, 

I dream, or sirens fair ; 

In thought, 

I am again the little maid 

Who round the yellow cottage pla3'ed ! 



PATIENCE DOW. 

Home from the mill came Patience Dow, 
She did not smile, slie would not talk ; 
And now she was all tears, and now 
As fierce as is a captive hawk. 
Unmindful of her faded gown. 
She sat with folded hands all day, 
Her long hair failing tangled down, 
Her sad eyes gazing far away. 
Where, past the fields, a silver line. 
She saw the distant river shine. 
But when she thought herself alone. 
One night, they heard her muttering low, 
In such a chili, despairing tone. 
It seemed the east wind's sullen moan : 
"Ah me ! the days, the}- move so slow ! 
I care not if they're fair or fcnil ; 
They creej) along — I know not how ; 
1 onl}- know he loved me once — 
He does not love me now !" 

One morning, vacant was her room ; 

And, in tiie clover wet with <\ii\\, 

A narrow line of broken bloom 

Showed some one had been passing throno-h ; 

And, following the track, it led 

Across a field of summer grain. 

Out where the thorny blackberries shed 

Their blossoms in the narrow lane, 

Down which the cattle went to drink, 



626 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

In summer, from the river's brink. 
"The river !" Hope within them sank ; 
The fatal thought that drew her there 
The}' knew, before, among the rank, 
Wliite-blossomed weeds upon the bank, 
The}' found the shawl she used to wear, 
And on it pinned a little note : 
"Oh, blame me not !" it read, "for when 
I once am free, my soul will float 
To him ! He cannot leave me then ! 
I know not if 'tis right or wrong — 
I go from life — I care not how ; 
I only know he loved me once — 
He does not love me now !" 

In the farm graveyard, 'neath the black, 

Funereal pine-trees on the hill, 

The poor, worn form the stream, gave back 

They laid in slumber, cold and still. 

Her secret slept with her ; none knew 

Whose fickle smile had left the pain 

That cursed her life ; to one thought true, 

Her vision-haunted, wandering brain. 

Secure from all, hid safe from blame, 

In life and death had kept his name. 

Yet, often, with a thrill of fear, 

Her mother, as she lies awake 

At night, will fancy she can hear 

A voice, whose tone is like the drear, 

Low sound the graveyard pine-trees make : 

"I know not if 'tis right or wrong — 

I go from life — I care not how ; 

I only know he loved me once — 

He does not love me now !" 



Clark B. Cochrane was born In New Boston, February 9, 1843. He was educated 
mostly at Kimball Union Academy, and studied law at Albany University in New 
York, He was admitted to the bar in 1865, and after following his profession with 
sfood success was obliged to leave it on account of a disease which rendered undue 
excitement liazardous to life. He returned to his native town, and in 1873 removed 
to Antrim, where he is engaged in mercantile and manufacturing pursuits. An 
elegant volume of liis, entitled, "Minora, and Other Poems," was issued Itom the 
Kiverside Press In 18G9. 



THE DAYS OF LONG AGO. 

Oh, time, upon whose viewless wing 
The fleeting seasons come and go, 



CLABK B. COCHBANE. .^^l 



Instruct my truant muse to sing 
The better da^'s of long ago. 

The present ma}-, perchance, beguile 
My passions while its moii;ents last ; 

But fortune's best and dearest smile 
Is buried in the silent past. 

And I would gladly now resign 
All that the future has for me, 

To spend one hour of sweet lang syne, 
Dear Mary, with the past and th'ee. 

But that, alas ! can never be 

Tlie fate of fancy's hapless son ; 

And unrelenting destiny. 

With cruel linger, beckons on. 

I see the future, dark and dim, 

Before my mortal vision rise ; 
The years, like banished seraphim. 

Are marching by me in disguise. 

My days are dark and cheerless now, 
Since time cannot reverse its flight ; 

01)livion's hand is on mj' brow 

And beckons down the pall of night. 

Yet sometimes in these darker hours 
I dream of better days in trust ; 

But when I reach to pluck the flowers 
Of youth, they turn to senseless dust ! 

New England ! on thy glorious hills 
I stand in thought, a moment free ; 

I hear the music of tliy rills, 
Nature's low notes of liberty ! 

And where my long lost love reclines 
In Avelcome shade I kneel to woo ; 

And nature's lyre of mountain pines 
Breathes soft as it was wont to do. 

But ah ! the witching vision flies. 

And facts are sterner things than dreams ; 
Sweet INIary's dark and soleiun eyes 

No longer watch thy purling streams ! 

Oh, they have changed from what they were 
When last they shot their fire at me ; 



628 rOETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

At least, such is my dream of her 
Upon this dark and stormy sea, — 

That in a fairer dime above, — 

The climax of the dreams of this — 

They wear the same old look of love. 
That once to me was more than bliss. 



NOON BY LAKE SUNAPEE. 

'Neath groves of maple and the tall plumed pine 

B}' Sunapee's fair lake we linger long. 

Morn rises unto noon, and all the kine 

On sun-bathed hills, the far-grouped shade trees throng ; 

In all the wood the wild birds pour their song 

Fi'om homes of rest in leafy branches cool. 

The plodding farmer, listening for the gong, 

Bathes his swart forehead in the limpid pool ; 

Calm as the blue depths of the quiet sky 

The glistening waters spread before the eye. 

While small white clouds, slow sailing from the west, 

Are mirrored in their bosom lovingly-. 

Below where new-born lilies lie at rest 

Like affluent pearls on some fair lady's breast. 

Loveliest day of all the lovely summer, 

Dreflmy, delicious, wearing on to eve ! 

Monotoned by many a joyous hhmmer 

Whose loss ere long the browning earth will grieve. 

Hark ! the partridge, the impetuous drummer, 

Thrumming liis love cnll in the dim old wood. 

Ruffling the stillness of its solitude ! 

The meadow lark, low in the scented clover. 

Holds converse with the matron of his brood ; 

Over long fields, the gra^' disporting plover 

Bends piping to the ground, an arc of song; 

The crow upon the mountain calleth long. 

Or watcheth, from his signal percli forlorn, 

His consort pilfering the planted corn. 

Oh, how delightful is the mountain air 
Cooled on til}' crested water, Snnapee ! 
We wonder if lake Leman is more fair. 
More sweet the gales of storied Araby. 
We breathe the breath of lilies and the balm 
Of woods forever green, while, from the calm 



CLABK B. COCHRANE. 



629 



Like sounds of far-off voices drawing near, 
The coming of the summer ^^•ind we hear 
In the long branches rising like a psalm 
Of peace upon thj' shore ; more sweet, more clear 
Than song of anirels to tlie morning star, 
When, from the rifted darkness of old time, 
Kearsarge and Sunapee ai-ose sublime 
To watch th}' fiiee forever, from afar. 



THE OLD RED HOUSE ON THE HILL. 

I am dreaming to-night of my boyhood's prime. 
Of days tliat now seem like the sound of a rhyme 
When the voice of the singer is still ; 
And somebody's spirit is leading me back. 
Along a rough and a weary track. 
To the old red house on the hill. 

How well I remember that dearly loved spot ; 

No place could be dear where my Mary was not, 

No other my fancy could fill ; 

For oft when my feet were too weary to roam, 

I turned, like a pilgrim hastening home, 

To the old red house on the hill. 

And when the red moon was a-climbing the sky, 
And night spread its star-sprinkled banner on high, 
We listened the lone whippoorwill ; 
And while we forgot all our sorrow and care, 
The poplar trees lifted their branches in prayer. 
By the old red house on the hill. 

Oh, the poplar trees stand by the old house yet — 
Their murmuring leaves, by the gentle dews'^wet, 
Are feeling the summer's warm thrill — 
But the maiden is gone from the open door, 
And my weary feet shall be rested no more 
In the old red house on the hill. 

Ah me 1 Can it be ? Is it only a dream ? 

Shall I never again in the sunset's gleam, 

When the odors of evening distil 

Like ambrosial balm on the soft summer air, 

Press the hand and the lips that once waited me there 

In the old red house on the hill? 



G;;0 rOETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 



It's onh' a dream as I look at it now, 

AVith darkness and dust on the beautiful brow 

That I kissed b}- the old door-sill ! 

Will it be but a dream where she waits afar? 

Shall we think, mid tlie vales of the evening star. 

Of the old red house on the hill ? 



TO OLD JOE ENGLISH, 

Ah, woe is me ! At last it must be said : 
Farewell, old mountain, on whose lofty crest 

My bo3"hood's feet were ever wont to tread, 
When the slant sun was sinking down to rest, 
Behind the old, romantic hills that shut the golden west. 

My heart is breaking ! tears from either eye, 
Those little emblems of the great in soul, 

Are falling like the rain ! are falling — why ? 

That I must leave thee, mount, o'er whom doth roll 

The angT}- clouds, the thunder crash of Lucifer's black scroll ! 

My sires have dwelt beneath thy brow long j^ears ; 

Thou wert to them a friend both true and fast ; 
Thy paths have known their feet, tliy shade their tears, 

Through the dim seasons of the silent past ; 

And still to me thou art a friend and would be to the last. 

When with a smile the dappled Morning flung 
Her sun-breathed glances from the purple east, 

Entranced, I listened to the magic tongue 

Of nature's friendship, though the first, not least. 
While Daphne spread for me her ever welcome feast. 

And when that low descending, summer sun 
Shone glowingly, aslant the mottled skv, 

I watched the shadows climbing, one hx one. 
Among the centuried oaks, as noiselessl}' 
As though the}' grieved to see the daylight fade and die. 

Beside thee dwelt a maiden, darkh' fair ; 

Her soul was pure as summer's azure skies ; 
I placed the wild flowers in her shining hair. 

And kissed her lips — then oh, my mad surprise ! 

That death should touch that blooming face, and pale those 
flashing eyes ! 

(iod of my fathers ! it is strange indeed ! 

The fairest flowers, the brightest gems of earth 



CLAliK B. COCHBANE. 631 

Are torn away from hearts that break and bleed, 
While those are left of none or little worth, 
To mock the name of Beaut}', and her heritage by birth. 

'Twas at thy foot the fair Sevilla fell 

By murderous hand upon the virgin snow — 

And her fierce lover, whom the fiends of hell 
Might fitly be ashamed of, if to know 
A viler dwelt on earth, could cause a blush below. 

He sleeps to-day within a culprit's grave. 

And no tongue mentions but to curse his name ; 

Till old Oblivion's all-assuaging wave * 
Shall blot the record of his evil fame ; 
Vile homicide ! who puts the bloodiest wretch to shame ! 

But she will live forever, conquering death ; 
And when the spirit of eternal good 

Shall pour along the summer gale his breath. 
Her chainless soul will wander in th}' wood. 
Free as the mountain air of th}' sweet solitude ! 

Reclining here beneath this giant oak. 

Where oft the dusky wooer met his love, . 

I hear the silence b}' her whispers broke. 
Soft as the love notes of the mated dove. 
Or faint and distant echo of some choir above. 

And when within thy leafy recess lingers 

The wood-lark's breathings, like the songs of Aiden, 

I've seen thj' wild rose plucked by viewless fingers, 
And floated on the breezes, perfume laden ; 
And then I know the presence of the hapless maiden ! 

And legends old are floating through mj' brain, 
A thousand idle and discordant fancies ; 

I see Joe English, in his plumes again, 

March down the war-trail of his old romances — 

And now the painted savage round the war-fire dances ! 

Through th}' green groves resounds the clash of arms. 

And death's relentless angel gluts his ire ; 
The Indian war-cry, with its dread alarms. 

Speaks far and wide of tomahawk and fire ; 

And now the bleeding captives around the stake expire ! 

W^hen Libert}', from out her dungeon barred, 

Sent her faint cheer for Concord's battle won, 
The thrice accursed tories basely marred 



632 POETS OF NEW HAMP8HIBE. 

Thy fair traditions ; and, towards the slanting sun, 
Hurled down, in burning effigy, the patriot Washington ! 

Oh, let them have no pit}', but the scorn 

Of freemen's sons through everlasting time ! 
The meanest enemies of man yet born, 

They wallowed in the God-insulting slime 

Of treachery, blacker than the foulest crime ! 

The Arnolds of Perdition, justly damned, — 

Their names shall blot th}^ history's pages ! 
Their souls shall be a stench in Hell, and jammed 

In the black den whei'e pain relentless rages, 

Shall writhe in agony of endless ages ! 

But all is changed save thy unchanging form ; 

The conflict's diapason sounds no more. 
And naught disturbs th}' silence but the storm 

That howls among thy branches, as of yore ; 

And peace and plenty smile upon my native shore. 

And since those days the fleeting years of time 
Have borne into the past these visions gor}'' ; 

And standing here, upon the verge sublime 
Of two eternities, I see thy stor}' — 
Thy mystic legends fading upon the page of glory. 

Alas ! that Fate, with, dark and stern decree, 
Should bid that I in other lands must roam, 

Far from the friends I ever loved, and thee, 
O mountain, that beside my early home, 
Pointest thy regal head up to the welkin dome ! 

But it is so ; and why do I stand here. 
And cavil at the things I cannot change, 

And not resign myself unto vc\y sphere, 

And through this world of death and sorrow range. 
Companion unto doubt and fear, and all that's dark and strange ? 

Awa}', thou phantom ! quick ! the spell is o'er ; 

come ! blest spirit that enchantment lends, 
Into my bosom all thy nectar pour ! 

With other mountains I will make new friends, 

Nor 3-et forget the one with thoughts of childhood blends ! 

I never can forget those happ}- hours 

1 whiled awaj' beneath thy oaken shade ; 
Hearing the wild birds in their vocal bowers ; 

Reading with jo}', and yet with little heed, 

Nature's sublimest volume, spread out where all ma}- read. 



FBANK 0. EVEBETT. G83 

And in the fleeting years, when far away, 

My bark is tossed upon life's troubled stream. 

My thoughts shall turn, O mountain old and gray, 
Back unto thee, my boyhood's earl}' theme, 
Thou monumental pile, that meet'st the sun's first beam. 



,-irrank (D. 33brvctt. 

F. O. Everett is a photographer ami has a studio in Nashua. He was born in 
Dover, November 10, 1844. His isjireiits moved to Manchester when lie was almut 
two years old. He was educatca in the scliools of Manoliester. He began ids fa- 
rcer as a printer at an early age, and followed that business ten years, when be 
(■hanged the stick for the camera. 



MABEL. 

Can it be? Can it be? This impress so sweet ; 

The smile on those dear, dainty lips we have pressed ; 
Those large, wondrous eyes in their m^'stical slee[) ; 

The shape!}- hand resting so still on her breast. 

darling ! Is this, then, the lamb of our fold, 
Asleep in the arms of Death, silent and cold? 

Hush ! Do notwake her ! The angels forbid ! 

Let me raise the soft lids from her luminous e3-es. 

1 know I shall find underneath them is hid 
The great, shining gateway of Paradise. 

And lo ! they are looking straight up to the stars, 
While heaven its flood-light of beauty unbars. 

I press my ear close to her heart ; in its hush 

It never responds to my plaintiful call ; 
Nor sends to my questioning one throbbing flush 

To break the deep darkness that broods over all. 
At rest ! with her hand nestled under her cheek, 
She smiles as if angels had lulled her to sleep. 

I will take her up gently again as of old ; 

I will breathe in her face life's awakening breath ; 
And while round ni}- treasure these strong arms enfold 

She'll whisper and tell me the secrets of death. 
I will coo in her cold face some soft "baby-bye" 
Till her wee, tiny spirit returns from the sky. 

No answer? No word from the close]3'-sealed lips? 

No lingering breath from the half-ripened mouth ? 
A mouth that seems borne on aerial ships 

From some shining sunland afar to the south. 
No word? While my poor heart is l)reaking, the while 
You lie there asleep with a heavenh' smile ! 



634 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

darling ! forgive me ! — I'll question no more. 
Aye, even if power were given to-night 

1 would not recall ft"om that shadowy shoi^ 

Your pure, tender soul down its trackwa}' of light. 
You shall shine in our lives like some radiant star. 
With a gleam that no doubt-shadows ever can mar. 



?£luatetf) iHartin, 



Miss Martin was born in the city of St. Jolin, N. B., June 15, 1843. Since 1857 she 
has lived in Shaker Village, Canterbury. 



"LOVE ONE ANOTHER." 

Let thy deeds like sunlight falling 

Where the shadows often stay, — 
And th}- voice in loving accents 

Cheer the weary o'er life's way. 
We are all so w^eak and need}". 

Deeds of love and tender care 
Are the sweetest joys that mingle 

With our battle and our prayer. 

Then let soul with soul be blended 

In life's active, earnest strife ; 
Thus by loving one another 

Be renewed from life to life. 
We are children of one Father 

Sharers in his love divine, — 
Why not, then, as friends and brothers, 

Round each heart affections twine? 

Best amid the pearls that glitter 

In the victor's diadem, 
Is the one of purest water, — 

Love, the brilliant sparkling gem. 
This the halo of our Saviour, 

This the glory of his strife ; 
Let us weave its radiant brightness 

In the fabric of our life. 



CONSECRATION. 

Here I pledge my earnest spirit 
To be thine, forever. Lord, 



JAMES G. BUSSELL. 635 

Claiming not a single merit, 
Oul3- knowledge of thy word. 

I liaA-e walked in paths forbidden, 

And engaged \n\ soul abroad ; 
Now I seek the path that's hidden, 

And forgiveness of m^- God. 

Take my will and guide it, Father, 

In the work thou'dst have me do ; 
All ray life I would surrender, 

In thy service e'er be true. 

I would tell of loving kindness. 

Truth and justice of thy way ; 
Light restore, to those in blindness. 

Till they walk in perfect da^'. 



HOUR OF WORSHIP. 

1 love the hour of worship, 

Where angels gather nigh ; 
AVith heavenly inspiration, 

To raise our thoughts on high. 
I love to offer pledges. 

Before my Father's throne ; 
Which will redeem from error. 

And draw his blessing down. 

I love to know my spirit 

Is blending with the pure ; 
That I am storing treasures, 

Eternall}' secure. 
And thus I feel exalted. 

Yet humble, when I see 
How good in all his dealings 

Mv God has been to me. 



Jamcg (&. Husscll. 

.1 G Hussell was born in Nonvich, Vt. His parents embraced the doctrines of 
Sliakerism and moved into the Society at Enlield, with their family, in 184ti, when 
.lames was but two years old, where he was educated and becixnie a faithful adher- 
ent to the Shaker faith. 

"WHAT LACK I YET?" 

Good Master, what wouldst thou have me to do, 
That I may have eternal life in thee ? 



G3G POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

I seek a part within thy kingdom new ; 

What furthei" sacrifice remains for me? 

The things that thou hast mentioned — all have I 

Most sacredl}' observed, and ever set 

My heart intent on godliness, whereb}' 

I would in truth be free : what lack I yet? 

Loved one — the goodly Master now responds — 

If perfect thou wouldst be, go sell thine all, 

And give unto the poor, release their bonds. 

Then come and follow me. Most blessed call ! 

And yet behold the sorrowful effect ! 

The sacrifice too great, for great indeed 

Were earth's possessions, thus to resurrect 

And unto God the miser'd soul to lead. 

Away the anxious face with sorrow turns, 

With feelings of dismay and deep regret, 

Though for eternal life the spirit yearns — 

Comes forth in words of grief — ''much lack I 3"et !" 

Ah, is the sacrifice too great to make? 

A life of worldliness to Li}' aside? 

The christian pathwa}^ cheerfully to take? 

And in the loving grace of God abide? 

Thou surely shalt have treasures stored in heaven, 

If cheerfully the price thou'lt fully pa}'. 

If unto God thy time and stength be given, 

To walli with care the self-denying wa}'. 

Though worldly riches be the selfish part. 

That calls for sacrifice, though great or small, 

Or be the idol sinfulness of heart. 

That seeks indulgence, allied to the fall ; 

Whatever be the part for sacrifice. 

If God's pure love is all in all to thee. 

From worldly loves and pleasures thou ma3''st rise, 

And in my kingdom have a part with me. 



Baron Samuel (!rtotod(. 

Barou S. Crowell, only son of the late Samxiel Crowell, was born in Newport, Nov. 
8, 1814. He was an invalid most of his life, made so by an imprudent bath taken 
when too warm. He died June 17, 1872. 



CHARITY. 

Let us never judge our neighbor, 
Though his light be very dim, 

For we cannot know the trials 
All in secret borne by him. 



THOMAS FBANCIS LEAHY. 637 

We may ne'er suspect his sorrows, 

Note his crosses or his cares ; 
Never guess his hopes and longings, 

Never hear his earnest pra3-ers. 

But his silent supplications, 

Though to mortals never known, 
On the wings of faith ascending, 

May the soonest reach the throne. 
And the One who sees his strivings 

May regard his feeble powers, 
And the pearly gates may open 

For his soul as well as ours. 

Let us never judge the erring, 

But in patience bear with all. 
For we may not know the story 

Of their struggle and their fall. 
The allurements the}' encountered 

IMight have tempted us to stra}'. 
And if saved b}' our surroundings 

Are we perfect more than they? 

To reclaim and raise the fallen 

Let us labor to the last. 
Ever asking, "Are we sinless?" 

Ere a single stone we cast. 
Then shall we receive a blessing 

For the love and mere}' shown ; 
If we save a soul from ruin 

It may help to save our own. 



T. F. Leahy Is .a native of Ireland, boru in 1S44 in the town of Rathmorrell, 
Causeway, County of Kerry. He received a good education in English branches 
and in the Latin language. He arrived in New York city in April, ISGl, and went 
soon after to Hinsdale, where he engaged in Avork on a farm. .Subseiiuentiv he ob- 
tained a clerkship in Jersey City, \. ./., in the employ of the York and lOrie rallroa(l. 
After about U\o years he resigne<l his position anc! returned to Ireland, wliere lie 
was arrested on suspicion of being a Fenian. Coming back to this country he 
went to Chicago, HI., Avhere he obtained a clerkship on the People's Hespatcli 
Line railroad. After leaving that position he learned the carriage paintiug traile, 
and has followed that business the last ten years, and is now proprietor of a sliop 
iu Keeue. 



THE MEN OF FORMER DAYS. 

Oh, for the men of former days, 
AVho did our stariT banner raise, 
Antl bore it through the smoke and blaze 
Of battle, blood, and slaughter ! 



638 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

Oh, for the patriotic few, 
Who, to tlieir loving country true, 
Would not be bound by tyrants who 
Were miles be^'ond the water ! 

There's AVashington, and La Fayette, 
Glorious names we'll ne'er forget. 
And Jackson brave, who nobl}' met 

And whipped the British foeraan. 
There's Stark, that hero of great fame, 
And many more that I could name, 
Who to the front, like Allen, came, 

And swore they'd yield to no man. 

Oh, for those men who boldly said, 
"Of tyrant laws we're not afraid, 
And low in death we shall be laid, 

Or Columbia shall be free !" 
Then Patrick Henry raised his voice, 
Which made the patriots rejoice ; 
For he declared that for his choice, 

He'd have death or liberty. 

His voice it rang through hill and dale, 
And good and true men did not fail 
His sentiments to heed and hail 

With joy and exultation. 
With steady step and fearless brow 
They quit the workshop and the plough, 
And showed the haughty foeman how 

To fight, and free a nation. 

Oh, for those men who gallantly 
Fought for their homes and liberty ! 
Their hearts were true as hearts should be, 

And fired with pure devotion. 
So let their names be e'er renowned, 
Who gave their lives and only found 
A grave in some far distant ground. 

Mid battle's fierce commotion. 



MOLLY'S BEAU. 

I'll seek the pleasant breezes. 
Where fond heart never freezes, 
And if my Molly pleases, 
I'll run 'naost anywhere. 



THOMAS FBAXCIS LEAHY. 639 

With feet the very fleetest 
I'll seek for flowers the sweetest, 
And in a wa}- the neatest 
I'll place them in her hair. 

I'll never vex or tease her, 
I'll do ni}' best to please her, 
And loving]}' I'll squeeze her 

To ni}- fond heart with care. 
And rather than offend her, 
I'd lose m}- life to render 
All jo}' to one so tender. 

So loving and so fair. 

Where'er ni}- footsteps wander. 
Of her I think and ponder, 
And daily I grow fonder 

Of Molly, I declare. 
For her true heart is teeming, 
And her bright ej-es are beaming 
With truth that's alwaj-s gleaming 

Around her everywhere. 

If doomed from her to sunder. 
Her bright eyes fill with wonder, 
I see the clouds of thunder, 

And tears begin to fall. 
Such showers I know would shake me. 
Such grief as that would make me 
To wish that death should take me. 

Than part with her at all. 

But I shall never, never, 
From my dear Molly sever. 
But always shall endeavor, 

Should fortune prove unkind, 
With heart as light as feather. 
In spite of wind and weather. 
To walk through life together 

With an untroubled mind. 



THE ROSE OF KEENE. 

Out of employment to seek enjoyment 
One day as I went, down by Main Street, 

A maid in splendor, fair, young and tender, 
(ienteel and slender, I chanced to meet. 



640 POETS OF NEW HAMP8HIBE. 

I did endeavor, though I could never 

The name discover of this nymph serene ; 

Nor information of her location, 

But her appellation is the Rose of Keene. 

While I stood glancing, this maid entrancing 

Was then advancing toward the Square ; 
And I, amazing, continued gazing. 

Silently praising her beauty rare. 
Her dress so neatl}-, her looks so sweetl}-. 

Made her completel}- the city queen. 
In every feature this lovely creature 

Was made by nature the Rose of Keene. 

'Tis not alarming if one so charming 

Had lovers swarming 'most all her life — 
If hearts were panting, and "gents ' were wanting 

This maid enchanting to be a wife — 
If such were sighing and almost d^'ing. 

Anxiously trying to gain this Queen, 
Who's fair as Flora, or sweet Aurora, 

Or famed Pandora, the Grecian queen. 

Her e^'es are brighter than stars at night are. 

Her step much lighter than the fleet fawn ; 
Her cheeks are glowing like flowers blowing. 

With beauty flowing o'er vale and lawn. 
Minerva's graces her form embraces, 

Like hers a face is now seldom seen ; 
So fascinating that hearts are breaking. 

And thousands aching for the Rose of Keene. 

Now in conclusion, 'tis no delusion 

Nor vain effusion that I indite ; 
For were I gifted or yet uplifted 

Where learning's drifted, 'tis there I'd write. 
With joy and pleasure I'd praise this treasure. 

Nor stint the measure, in rh^'me I ween ; 
But with great glor^' in song and story, 

I'd praise till hoary the Rose of Keene. 



vluot was born in East Machias, Maine. H 
ington Academy in liis native town. He sti 
then at Williston Seminary, East Hamptoi 
Aiidover Theological Seminary in the class of 1870, and was called to settle as pas- 
tor of the Congregational Church, in Durham, N. H., Nov., 1872, where he has since 



Kev. Henry L. Talbot was born in East Machias, Maine. He received his early 
eilucation at Washington Academy in his native town. He studied three years at 
Wilbraham, Mass., then at Williston Seminary, East Hampton, graduating from 



resided. 



HENR r LA UREN8 TALBOT. G41 

"I SHALL SEE HIM AS HE IS." 

"Shall see him as he is !" 
How thrills that thought the Christian's soul, 
Luring him onward to the goal 

Of everlasting bliss. 

Earth, with its hopes, away ; 
M}' soul hath hoard your charmcid song, 
By sin's dark waters lingered long, 

Yet wearied of their play. 

And now its hope is this : 
By faith and prayer at length to rise 
To that sweet home beyond the skies, 

And "see him as he is !" 

Hasten, O happ}^ hour ; 
Nor longer staj' thy lingering wheels, — 
This promise to mj- soul reveals 

The Christian's priceless dower ! 



THE WAR-CRY. 

Give me the panoply- of war, 

I'm ready for the fra}- ! 
Cxird up my loins, and quickly, for 

I will no longer sta\'. 

I hear the trumpet's certain peal, 

It thunders in m^' ear, 
My Captain beckons, and I feel 

No shame, no doubt, no fear. 

The hosts of sin assail m}- Lord, 

His banners drag in dust, 
My soul grows strong ; hand me the sword, 

It shall no longer rust. 

Quick, or mj' Master's cause is lost ! 

Quicic, or my Lord is slain ! 
I see, of sin, the ni_yriad host 

Fast gathering on the plain. 

Though faster, thicker come the foe, 

Stronger and braver I ! 
For Jesus I will gladlj- go 

To sufler and to die. 



642 FOETS OF NEW HAMP8HIBE. 

I scorn to lie on flowery banks, 
I wish not rest nor ease ; 

But, foremost in the battle ranks, 
I seek my Lord to please. 

Then give to me my armor, Lord, 
I'm read}^ for the fra}' ; 

Gird up my loins, I hear thj- word, 
And joyfully obey. 



LINES. 

Suggested by the trees after a storm. 

I walked, to-daj^, in a silver grove 
Bedecked with shining crystals rare ; 

The waving branches tossed above 
Their frosty diamonds in the air. 

I gazed enraptured on the scene. 

And thought of the world that needs no sun. 
All radiant in the dazzling sheen 

Of the perfect day so long begun. 

And I thought, if God on the streets of earth 
Lavished profusely light and gem, 

What would it be, at the heavenly birth. 
In the streets of the New Jerusalem ! 



EGBERT, MY DEPARTED BOY. 

He sleeps no more upon my breast, 
The music of whose gentle feet 
My listening ear was wont to greet, 

Whose golden curls I oft caressed. 

His bed is where pale violets sleep. 
The narrow mound I may not see, 
But pitying voices sa}' to me, 

"'Tis where the sad-eyed violets weep." 

Our own stout hearts are filled with dread. 
We shrink with terror and dismay 
To walk the dark, mysterious waj^ 

That leads us to the silent dead. 

How can he tread the darksome waj' — 
Who ever in the path of life 



LYDIA FliANCES CAMP. (]4:\ 

Has shielded been from eveiy strife — 
Up to the confines of the da}- ! 

And should he reach that better land, 

Will lie not feel himself alone, 

As if an uninvited one, 
And on its threshold trembling stand? 

Oh, who Avill know the child is there, 

In that vast world of dazzling light? 

Amid the hosts of seraphs bright, 
Who'll see that little form so foir? 

Ah, some one from the angel-band 

Who watched our angel here on earth, 

And claimed with him a kindred birth. 
Will greet him in that better land, — 

Lead him, through ranks of legions bright, 

To One who trod life's pathwaj- dim. 

And called earth's children unto Him 
Now seated on a throne of white ! 

And He will take my little bo}' 

And fold him to His gentle breast, 

Till, sinking in that blissful rest, 
His soul shall taste eternal jo}' ! 



Mrs. Camp is a native of Grafton, born in February, 1845. Sbe received in) 
acafieiuical education at Canaan and Andover. Teacliing Vas lier vocation previous 
to her marriage in 1877. She resides in Hanover. 



IN MEMORY BRIGHT. 

Oh, truthful words, "In memory bright!" 

That old square house, my youthful home, 
I seem to see through fancy's flight, 

And love it yet, though far I roam. 
Those earl}' days, each early scene 

Are still impressed upon my mind, 
More clear than all that lies between 

The things a-near and those behind. 

I cannot help but feel regret 

Tiiat having wandered here and there, 
No vine or fig-tree have I yet 

That shall for me its fruitage bear, 



(544 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 



And to my children seem a boon 
As precious as my mem'ries dear, 

Wliich cannot from me perisli soon, 
Of that loved spot I cherish here. 

My school-day friends ! Oh, where are they 

\Vhose names I heard at call of roll? 
Many of them have passed away 

To land above — home of the soul ! 
How various are the ways of those 

Who still upon life's pathway tread ! 
Joy comes to some, to some come woes. 

Some live in ease, some toil for bread. 



Otlara jfcUoUjg JEac^iutirc. 

Mrs. Maoklntire was born in Salisbury, Jan. 13, 1S4G, where she spent her child- 
hood, leaving town at the age of eleven. She passed her girlhood in Hopkinlon, 
where she received her education. At a very early age she exhibite<l a genius for 
poetry and sketching. At the age of thirteen she wrote a composition in verse 
which so surprised her teacher that she thuught she must have had assistance from 
some older and more experienced person. At a later period her pictures in crayon, 
water-colors and oil attracted attention and were deserving of merit. At the age 
of twenty-lhree she was married to Charles Mackintire in Henniker where she now 
resides Her onlv child (Little Kobbie) M'as born in 1870 and died in his fifth year. 
For the past ten years Mrs. JIackintire has been a confirmed invalid and perfectly 
helpless— conflueti to her chair, unaljle to lie down or move her limbs. It was 
while in this condition that she composed some of her best pieires of poetry- 
many of which liave been published in tlie leading journals in this state and Mass- 
achusetts under the noni de plume of Wachusett and Kearsargo. Altliougli she 
has been an invalid so many years, she possesses a strong mind and clear intellect, 
and for hours at a time will converse with her friends upon the leading topics of 
the day or the literature of the age, in a manner that shows she has wasted no time 
during her long illness in storing her mind with useful knowledge. 



MUSINGS. 

I sit alone and dream to-night, 
Before the embers burning'bright. 

And in their crimson glow 
Quaint pictures there I see, and trace 
Each well remembered form and face 

Of friends of long ago. 

Without, the wildly rushing gale 
Goes by with shriek and sob and wail 

Like lost souls in despair. 
But all within is warm and bright. 
Save where the flickering fire-liglit 

Throws shadows here and there. 

They step without the picture fair, 
Their forms are hov'ring round iny chair. 
They whisper soft and low. 



CLARA FELLOWS MACKINTIBE. 645 



Dear frienfll}- hands in mine I c:rasp, 
Their loving arms aronnd me clasp, 
Mj loved of long ago. 

Sweet kisses on ray lips are pressed, 
A child's head nestles on mj^ breast, 

And one b}- one I twine 
The golden tresses tenderly, 
And hum a low, soft lullaby, 

As erst in days of mine. 

Forgotten is the tempest's wail, 
My ear heeds not the sleet and hail 

That beat the window pane. 
Sweet music heard in by-gone hours, 
Faint perfume of forgotten flowers 

Float round me once again. 

Again I thread the olden maze. 
The paths 1 trod in girlhood's days 

When life seemed, ah ! so sweet, 
Ere my young life had known a care, 
Where earth seemed naught but good and fair. 

And time seemed all too fleet. 

And tluis I dream the hours awa}'. 
The fire-light fades to ashes gre}', 

The blackened embers falL 
Until the chiming of tiie clock. 
Until the crowing of the cock. 

My wand'ring thoughts recall. 

My guests have flown, the house is still. 
The room is clieerless, dark and chill, 

The shadows seem to fall. 
And close around me fold on fold ; 
And in my heart a gloom untold 

Seems settling like a pall. 

tired heart! once filled with joy 
And l)liss wliich seemed without alloy, 

Th}- visions bright have fled. 
And naught remains to mark tlie way 
But broken dreams and ashes grey 

Of cherished hopes now dead. 

1 rouse me from these foncies drear. 
The storm is spent, the air is clear. 

Sweet calm reigns near and far, 



G4() POETS OF NEW HAMP8HIEE. 

All clouds from yonder sky have gone, 
And thvoLigli the purple dusk of dawu 
Burns pale the morning star. 

O glorious harbinger of day ! 
Is there for me of light one ray 

Behind these gloomy shrouds? 
Yes, something bids me not repine, 
The star of hope will brighter shine 

When lifted are the clouds. 

When for the summons home I wait, 
Or pause before the mystic gate 

That leads to perfect rest, 
Behind the shadows I shall see 
Wh}' life has been so dark for me, 

And why God deemed it best. 



AUTUMN. 

Royal, queenly, golden Autumn ! 

Thou art here, and once again 
Broods the drowsy Indian summer 

Over valley, hill and plain. 
On my cheek I feel the soft wind, 

As it gently steals along, 
Bringing near the distant chorus 

Of the farmers' harvest song. 

Pale mists lie along the valley. 

Clothing it in snow}' shrouds. 
Or beneath the morning sunlight 

Float away in amber clouds. 
Pearly smoke wreaths, slowly rising. 

Hang in all the hazy air, 
And thy gorgeous gold and crimson 

Tint the w^oodlauds everywhere. 

Drowsily the late bee, humming 

O'er the wild flowers lying dead, 
Chants a requiem, sad and tender. 

For the summer's sweetness fled. 
Listen to the plover calling 

In the meadow brown and dry. 
Nearer sounds the partridge drumming 

In the hazel copse hard by. 



MAB T HELEN B ODE Y. 647 

I can hear the ripe nuts falling 

As the forest paths I tread, 
And the saucy squirrels chatter 

In the branches over head. 
Sharp and clear the huntsman's rifle 

Through the morning stillness breaks, 
Mingled with the hound's deep baying 

Echo after echo wakes. 

All the flocks and herds are coming 

From the hill-side and the plain ; 
We have harvested and garnered 

From the fields their wealth of grain. 
We have plucked the fruits grown mellow 

In the suns of autumn time, 
And the wine-presses are ladened 

With the fruitage of the vine. 

All these signs speak, in a language 

That my fond heart knows full well, 
Of th}- presence, bounteous season, 

And we own th}^ magic spell. 
We have marked thy silent coming 

By these tokens far and near. 
And with glad thanksgiving greet thee, 

Kegal queen of all the year. 



Miss Boodev, the dauprhter of Jacob P. and Louise M. D. Boodey, was horn in 
Dover, December 11, 1847. She died iu Laconia, April 29, 1880, two months after 
the death ot her father. Her first poem was published in the Home Journal wheu 
she was fifteen years of age. In 1871 she became assistant editor of Ballou's Mag- 
azine, and remained in that capacity until compelled by ill health to return to her 
home in Laconia. Her death was a sad loss to her many friends. Her ability as a 
writer, both of prose and verse, was of a high order. As she wrote many poems 
it would be desirable that they be published in a volume. 



OCTOBER MUSINGS. 

The wintry skies are dark with clouds 
Portentous of the coming blast, 

A mournful gloom my heart enshrouds, 
The while I muse upon the past. 

Dear Summer ! thou art gone away. 
Thy withered robings fill the air, 

Fit emblems of our life's decay, 

Of all things transient, bright and fair. 



648 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIEE. 

Thy sister, Autumn, reigned awhile 
In gorgeous loveliness and pride, 

She made us on her beaut}' smile, 
While 3'et for love of thee we sighed. 

She wooed us with her queenly state, 
Her golden-tinted robes of red, 

Nor dreamed so sad should be her fate. 
Clasped in the arms of Winter, — dead ! 

She gentl}' kissed, with breezes bland, 
That half were Summer's, half her own, 

The brightly blooming, verdant land, 
Till it became her fitting throne. 

We bowed in admiration mute 
Before her grand peculiar charms, 

And half, before her silent suit. 

Forgot sweet Summer's twining arms. 

Still memor}' with her gentle spell 
Would waft us back to daj's before. 

When every green-clad hill and dell 
Was like some fair enchanted shore. 

Ah ! then her lavish beauty plead 

In vain, 'gainst Summer's mirth and bloom, 

We sadly longed for pleasures fled — 
The bird's sweet song, the flower's perfume. 

And now fair Autumn sinks in death. 

Her beauteous cheek is blanched with pain, 

She shrinks before the chilly breath 
That heralds her destroyer's reign. 

Our life, 'tis said, is like to this, 
And summer is the golden time 

When love may ripen into bliss. 

While joyous hope-bells sweetly chime. 

Alas ! for those whose life-hopes fade 
As autumn woods in winter's blast. 

For whom sweet summer's verdant shade 
Is but a dream too bright to last. 

But Hope points upward, smiling still, 
To spheres unscanned b}' mortal ej'e, 

And whispers, '■'there 'tis summer still, 
Though earthly flowers may fade and die." 



MABY HELEN BOODEY. 649 

THEEE LITTLE BLUE BONNETS. 

Inscribed to Susie, Louise, and Alice T . 

Three little blue bonnets are over the border, 
Three little blue bonnets so cosy and warm, 

And oh, ma}- our Father his providence order. 

To keep those who wear these blue bonnets from harm ! 

Three sweet little faces, all artless and winning, 

Look out from the depths of these bonnets of blue, 

So fair, and so free from all traces of sinning. 
Like beautiful blossoms the}' seem to our view. 

Three pairs of bright eyes, full of beauty and laughter, 
And blue as the sky is, the rare sky of June, 

Look out on the world with a joy that hereafter 
Will sing to each heart like some exquisite tune. 

Six fair little hands ever eager for motion, 

And six tiny feet lightl}' tripping along. 
Three light little hearts full of childish emotion, 

And three little ros^- mouths ready for song. 

Three buds in earth's garden, that promise so sweetl}' 
A J03' for the future wherein they shall bloom ; 

Oh, may that dear promise be fultiiled completel3% 

May they smile in their beauty to brighten earth's gloom ! 

But what shall I wish as the best of all wishes, 
A token of love for these dear little lives ? 

That the}' may have beauty and brightness and riches, 
And each one become the most cherished of wives? 

Ah, yes ! ma}' all this be their fair earthly dower. 
The blessings that life in its fulness ma}' bring. 

Sunshine that will brighten each day and each hour, 
"While joy in the heart like a fountain may spring. 

All womanhood's blessings and womanhood's crosses 
Lie hid in the future that beameth so fair ; 

I pray that its gains may outnumber its losses 
To these gay little hearts so unconscious of care. 

But this were of friendship An unfinished token ; — 
There's something far grander than happiness gives ; 

For life may grow dark, and its fond ties be broken. 
But one hope through sunshine and shadow still lives. 



G50 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

Oh, then, I will wish that, whate'er life ma}' bring them, 
These three little girls maj' be steadfast and true, 

And three little queens I will joyously sing them, 
Or princesses rare in their bonnets of blue. 

Joint heiresses, the}', of the joys and the sorrows 
That wait in the path of a true woman's feet ; 

May angels attend them, while earth from them borrows 
A glory the brightest, a bliss the most sweet. 



AFTER I DIE. 

What care I then, if the bright summer sun, 
AVith its enthroning sky of cloudless blue. 

And sweet-voiced fountain's softly falling spray 
Reflecting in its beauty many a hue, 
Shine not for me ! 

Full well I know the earth will be as green 
In the sweet summer, and the flowers as fair, 

The skies as cloudless, and the silvery sheen 
Of falling waters 3'et as rich and rare, 
Though not for me ! 

I shall exult in freedom, like a bird 

Long caged and eager for an upward flight ; 

With no regret my soul will then be stirred. 

Though the calm splendor of the jewelled night, 

Its stany jewels beaming golden light, 
Beam not for me ! 

The kindly greeting of the friend to friend. 
The cordial hand-clasp and the smiling brow, 

The gentle glance that love-thoughts ever lend, 
And tender words, so soothing, soft and low ; — 

These may spring up, as violets b}' the way. 
To gladden other hearts in their brief da}', 
If not for me. 

But O ! the unrecorded, untold bliss 

That ma}' be mine in yonder brighter sphere, 

The glad reunion, and the welcome kiss 
That I dare hope will end my journey here, 

Will be more precious and more perfect joy 
Than eartlily friendships with their rude alloy 
Can give to me. 



MAE T HELEN BOODET. 651 

s 

Though earth ma}' pass awa}' and be no more, 
Her landscapes fade before my closing eye, 
And those to come forget that long before 

Their present time 1 laid me down to die, 
The brighter beauties of immortal day 

May sweep each lingering thought of grief away — 
And this for me ! 



"VOICES OF HEART AND HOME." 

Fain would I sing a song for home, 

Where faith and trust abide, 
For all the gentle jo3's that come 

Borne on love's swelling tide. 
Sweet voices warble in the heart 

A song that never dies ; 
E'en while the burning tear-drops start. 

Their melodies arise. 

And, like the sound of Sabbath bells. 

That speak to us of praj-er, 
"Within our hearts their music tells 

Of all things pure and fair. 
Go, if 30U will, and bend the knee 

At pleasure's gilded shrine ; 
Kneel with her myriad worshippers. 

While youth and health are thine ; 

But as you sweep the gidd}- round 

That pales the blooming cheek, 
Oh, ask your heart if you have found 

The happiness you seek. 
Does not the tinsel and the glare 

Soon fail to charm yonx eye, 
And what you deemed so strangely fair 

Fade into mockery ? 

Ah yes ! and then you vainly weep 

For tender, clasping arms, 
And a sweet voice to give you sleep. 

And rest from all alarms. 
There is no joy like being loved, 

To read in truthful eyes 
The strong atfection time has proved, 

The love that never dies ! 



d 



652 POETS OF NEW IIAMPSIIIRE. 

And i:^in youth we cast aside 

The stainless joys of home. 
When we have tested all beside, 

We I'arely wish to roam. 
The clasping hands, the beaming ej'es, 

The accents soft and low 
Are tokens of the tenderest ties 

Our earthl}- lives may know. 

Then would I sing a song for home, 

And feelings that impart 
The fragrance of undying bloom, — 

Wild roses of the heart ! 
Through these we sometimes faintlj' guess 

The perfect joys of heaven. 
As by the spring's pale loveliness 

A summer-hope is given. 



A DREAM. 

Alas, alas ! the dreary winds are blowing, 
And loudly sobs and wails the restless sea ; 

Across m}- sk}^ the clouds are coming, going, 
That bring a weird uncertainty to me. 

Mj' heart beneath its weight of woe is crying, 
My life's wide plain appeareth bleak and bare ; 

And ah, my flowers, m}' cherished flowers are dying, 
Chilled by the wintr}' breath of dark despair ! 

Beneath the gloomy sky I wander lonely. 
Grasping what once were roses in my hand ; 

Alone, alone ! Oh God ! to thee, thee only 
I lift my eyes upon this haunted strand. 

Wilt thou forsake me, mild-eyed Redeemer ! 

Behold the cruel thorns have pierced my feet ! 
Thorns such as thmi didst bear without a tremor, 

Dear Christ, and for that reason they are sweet. 

Upon the blast my hair streams without decking. 
My "bonnie hair," he called it — well a-day ! 

Now I may cry — he lieth without recking, 

Whom once my softest tone could rule and sway. 

Wail on, ye winds, 3'our mournful voice is music; 

Bend down, ye skies, ye dreary' skies of gra}- ; 
Sob on, O sea, they but prize love who lose it, 

And see its faded trophies strew the way. 



3fAR r HELEN B ODE Y. C53 

But ah ! what glowing stai' above the mountains 

Beckons me on through pathways hncd with flowers? 

What voice, like rippling rills and gushing fountains, 
Comes to me as to earth the vernal showers? 

Is it for me the sk}' once more grows rosy, 
AVhile low, soft music soundeth from the sea? 

Is it for me that morn once more uncloseth 
Her golden gates of glory wide and free ? 

"What hand hath crowned my palHd brow with roses, 

While gentle zephyrs lightly lift my haii-, 
And song of bird or hum of bee discloses 

The wondrous truth that earth again is fair? 

Where hath the black -browed tempest fled that grieved me ? 

Oh, J03" ! the flowers are springing at my feet. 
Gone are the fearful shadows that deceived me, 

I only dreamed — and ah, to wake how sweet ! 



WE SHALL MEET AGAIN. 

We shall meet again on a beautiful shore. 
Where the sorrows of life can assail us no more, 
Where the bliss of the heart is unmingied with fear. 
And the light of existence beams holy and clear. 
We shall meet where the zephyrs forever are bland, 
And the brow of delight is by gentleness fanned. 
Where the soul will rejoice in a wonderful joy, 
And the glory of life will be free from alloy. 
We shall meet face to face, I shall see thee once more, 
And the smile in thine eyes will beam bright as of yore. 
And the love that the strong hand of death could not quell 
To its full tide of beauty and blessing will swell. 
Oh ! sweet is the thought, as it comes to my soul. 
That though life's stormy billows all roughly may roll. 
The time will soon come when my soul will be IVce 
From the frail house that now hides th}- s[jirit from me. 
Will heaven shine the brighter for thee when I come 
Like a dove that is weary and seeketh its home ? 
Wilt thou greet me with words that will fall on my ear 
Like the music of heaven in their accents so dear? 
Shall I nestle to rest in the arms of thy love, 
And wilt thou rejoice o'er thine earth- weary dove? 
I have wept, I have mourned, in m}- sorrow for thee, 
For the light that on earth I mav nevermore see. 



654 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

And my tears have been swift as I've pictured earth's strife 

Bereft of the one who was dearer than life ; 

But ever when agony rose to its height, 

And my soul was enshrouded in grief's wildest night, 

A sweet voice has whispered m}- anguish to rest, 

And a sense of th}' presence my spirit has blest ; 

It comes like the sunshine tliat bursts through the gloom 

When the tempest subsides and the rainbow can bloom, 

And so great is my joy at this viewless delight. 

That hope springeth up, and m}' future grows bright. 

Ah, yes ! we shall meet on that beautiful shore, 

Where death, separation and grief are no more. 

Where God gives his children reward for all pain, — 

In the glad light of heaven I shall meet thee again. 



^tJtrbcin jfranciis H^roione. 

Addison F. Browne was born at Union Town, N. J., March 11, 1848. His father, 
Rev. Addison Browne, is a native of Brentwood, and his mother was born in Ports- 
mouth. Until liis sixteenth year he resided in various New Hampsliire and Mass- 
achuBstts towns, where his father, a Baptist clergyman, preached. He then went 
to the war, joining the thirtieth Massachusetts regiment. After arriving home he 
led a wandering fife lor several years, visiting different states, and making long 
voyages to distant countries ; but Anally, tireti of such experiences, settled down 
in Boston, where he has resided for the past twelve years. He is engaged in liter- 
ary work and is meeting with very cheering success". He is on the staff of "The 
Watchman." 



TWO SCENES. 

I stood upon a stage of gold. 
Sweet perfume filled the air ; 

While robes with flashing crimson fold, 
And diamonds bright were there. 

Around me, friends with noble look 

Composed a picture grand. 
And of m}' bounty all partook 

With joy and willing hand. 

The place was filled with brilliant light ; 

Many a lady fair. 
And many a handsome featured knight 

With haughty looks was there. 

But to m}'^ door a stranger came, 

Who, though of noble look. 
Was clothed in rags, and sore and lame, 

And by all friends forsook. 

He asked but for a crust of bread 
For one of home bereft ; 



ADDISON FBANCIS BB WNE. T. 5 5 

And when his simple want was fed 
He wished me well and left. 

Upon that scene the curtain fell ! 

But shortly rose again, 
And sure 1 am no one could tell 

The form that stood there then. 

Bright splendor now had flown away : 

I stood in rags, alone ! 
With not a place my head to lay, 

And naught to call my own. 

For with my fair prosperity 

My friends had gone also, 
And in complete adversity 

I felt forebodings grow. 

But, to my cheerless, gloomy night, 

A noble friend there came. 
Whose eye was bright with manly light, 

I looked — it was the same ! 

'Twas he to whom in wealth and pride 

A crust of bread I gave, 
Who, now in wealth, came to m}' side 

From sorrow me to save. 



MOONLIGHT IN SEPTEMBER. 

The glory of day has flown to the west, 

And the twilight fades to a purple ray, 
As the orange light on you mountain's crest, 

Before the night shade, passes up and away. 
Such is the view as I walk by the side 
Of Merrimack's fair and peaceful tide, 
Near one of those highlands, rugged and great, 
So often found in the old Granite State. 

Soon, from 3on east, the full harvest moon 

O'er mountain and plain, and rivulet free, 
Sheds the pure white glow of reflected noon ; 
And the woodland dim, like a shadowy sea 
Stretching away to the distant gloom. 
Attracts the eye by each tossing plume. 
Through whose leafy harp the night winds blow 
With a chanting sound of melody low. 



G.56 POETS OF NEW HA3IPSHIBE. 



The grand old mountain, so massive and high, 

With loft}^ summit and steep rocky side, 
All clearl}' defined stands out from the sk}^ ; 

While the glittering spraj of a streamlet's tide, 
Dashing along in the moonlight's glow, 
Swiftly- descends to the valle}' below. 
And journeys toward the central stream 
That with shining jewels is all agleam. 

How soothingl}' calm is this soft fair light ! 

Its milder beauty so changes the scene, 
That valley and plain and sk}' seeking height 

Appear as the parts of a picture serene ; 
And far awaj' through pasture and dell 
My step is guided by a mystic spell, 
Whose potent power — an unseen will — 
Seems all my spirit with rapture to thrill. 



ONE LOOK. 

While we were hurrying through a crowded street, 

The human surges brought us face to face, 
And it has never been my lot to meet 

With one revealing more of native grace ; 
As like a flash, that language of the heart 

Which binds long legends in a single book 
Appeared, in guise secure from carnal art. 

And though our passing but a moment took, 
Tiiat holy glance and half completed smile, 

Which came to me while eye was fixed on eye, 
Invoked a spirit thrill, whose noble style 

Reveals a sweetness that can never die. 
And as with me, so it must be with her, 
For mutual causes like results confer ! 



SLEEP. 



When far intensified, abnormal sight. 

Through hours of awful length has pierced the gloom, 

Till telescopic fancy takes command 

Of Jill within my shadow-altered room. 

And weaves a wild array of angry shapes, 

Whose labors centre in a mission sad. 

To chain my thought on mem'ry's most unpleasant page. 

Which Hope had told me, in the cavern graves of time 



ADDISON FRANCIS BROWNE. ^-,7 



Would sink beyond all resurrection chance, 

And never break the constant rising ground 

AVhich later acts have thrown upon its rest, 

The near approach of Goddess Sleep is fraught 

With tyrant fear, that burns in every nerve, 

For then her features have an icy glare 

That speaks a semblance of her sister Death, 

And to her victims seems to prophes}- — 

"Your coming slumber will be long and deep ! 

Eyes that are closing now will close fore'er ! 

While thought and sense will change into a frozen dream, 

The latest mortal footmark of a passing soul." 

Far better — when a life is so disturbed 

By overplus of unrelenting care. 

Or with the burden Of that sick'ning fruit 

Which is the certain growth from criminal seeds 

That sleep cannot be wooed in natural ways, 

And only comes, when painful lassitude invites, 

To give the frenzied brain, instead of needed rest, 

A clouded space of semi-conscious w^ork 

On doleful pictures from the world of dreams 

To let our fancies wander as they will. 
And wait relief from morning's subtile balm, 
Instead of seeking sleep. 

For warning dark. 
At such a time is often warning true ! 
When happy days of fair advancing work 
Have left their records in the book of time, 
And evening hours have passed witli such a flow 
Of social friendship's Ijrightly ordered stream. 
Or young affection's si)ring of prospect sweet,' 
That we must surely win a profit large ; 
As on its welcome pillow lies each head, 
And gentle weariness has only come 
That we may know the potency of rest ; 
Then, as my nightly visitor descends 
To slowly move her care-suspending wand 
Across the key-board of my tired soul. 
And hushes every note whose stirring voice 
Contributes to the varied harmony 
Of wakeful nature's rapid flowing son"-, 
I can receive her as a loving friend. 
And in her quiet arms sink softly down 
With every sense attuned to anthems low. 
Whose melody, of steady halcyon notes. 
Is but the f'oldcn throbbing of her heart, 



658 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

And undulates upon my raptured ear, 

As over blissful seas I float away 

Into a mighty trance of dreamless calm. 



atitielaitre (&, Bennett. 

Mrs. Bennett was born in Warner, Nov., 1848. She is the daughter of Gilman 
(;. and Nancy (Badger) George. She was for several years a teacher in the Man- 
chester High School. In October, 1877, slie was married to Mayor Charles H. Ben- 
nett, of Lemars, Iowa, now of Pipestone City, Minnesota. In 1881 a small volumo 
of her poems was issued by H. S. Smith & Co. of Lemas. 



THE NEW-BORN YEAR. 

Faintl}^ shines the moon's fair crescent, 

Slowly setting in the west ; 
And the gathering, deepening darkness, 

Shining stars in beauty crest. 

Sadly now the shadows lengthen, 
And enfold the shivering earth. 

For to-night the old year dieth. 
And the new 3'ear has its birth. 

'Tis a watch-night through the nation ; 

Prayerful hearts in silence wait. 
Watching the fast fleeting moments, 

Watching till the hour grows late. 

And the silver- voiced Muezzin, 
From his battlement on high, 

Cries, "'Tis twelve, the old year dieth. 
And the new is drawing nigh." 

Spreading forth his new-fledged pinions 

At Aurora's rosy dawn, 
Over isles and lakes and ocean 

Flies the happy year new-born. 

From the hill-side and the mountain. 
From the valley and the plain. 

Onward spreads the joyful greeting, 
"Happ}' New Year once again." 

List : the broad Atlantic surges 
Roll it westward o'er the strand, 

And the soft Pacific murmurs 
Send it eastward o'er the land. 



JOHN ADAJIS BELLOWS. G59 



Louder, clearer grows the greeting, 
Many tongues repeal the call, 

And in joyful chorus echo, 
"Happy New Year unto all." 

Happy new year ! bright thy dawning ! 

Be it like an opening bud : — 
Ripening into fairer flowers. 
Bringing to us happier hours. 

Ere tliou pass beyond the flood. 



Joijn ^tram.s tScllotDS. 




He was o'nlainea aud installed as minister of the First Unitarian sV'ietVorwVter 
ville, Maine, June 6, 1S78. He man-ied Isabel Francis, of Turrytowu, N Y Nov- 
ember G, 1878. ■' 



THE POET. 

No golden lyre his hand has swept 
To please some high-born lady's ear, 

But mid wild nature's solitudes 

He sang, nor wept though none might hear. 

He wrote not for the bustling throng, 

For battle field or bus}- mart, 
'Neath spreading trees and God's blue sky 

He sang the voices of his heart. 

Great sorrow knew he ; — when was sono- 
E'er ripe and perfect, but, unseen, 

An angel in disguise had sown 

Some bitter thorn the flowers between ? 

He lived a quiet life ; unheard 

The hurrying throng each day passed by ; 
He had sore conflicts, yet passed througir 

The fire, nor flinched, with heaven-ht eye. 

Is it decreed that poets learn 

By toil and anguish, sufl'cring long, 

By bitter word and sneer of men, 
The lessons that they teach in song? 

They blamed him that no deeper thought 
Did haunt his lines of poesy 



G60 POETS OF NEW HAMP8HIBE. 

Than that which sings in bending leaves, 
Or sparkles on the rippling sea. 

Better they blamed "the birds that sang 
God's lyrics througli June's golden days," 

Better the laugliing brook, than one 
AVho sang, yet wept to wear the bays. 

He died, as all men must, and then 
Each lent his word of blame or praise : 

"This poet struck some ies^ notes well," 
They said, then went their several ways. 

But o'er .his grave the wood-birds sing 
Tlieir wildest notes of melody, 

And still above him, loved so well, 
Hovers the cloudless, -summer sky. 

And freed from earthly care and loss. 
From sore defeat or victory won. 

Through worlds of space, from star to star, 
His poet-soul went singing on. 





TWO PICTURES. 

She sits in the low, old-fashioned room, 

Two white hands are crossed on her knee. 
The clock is ticking on in the gloom. 

Marking the moments, steadil}'. 
While the red glow of the failing fire 

Flashes full in her pure, young face ; 
I wonder if she is unaware 

Of lips' expression, and e3'es' sweet grace ! 
Or does she guess, has some one told, — 

Surel}' she loves, I know not whom, — 
That her hair is like to fine-spun gold. 

Her cheeks to the pink of the apple-bloom? 
Wliat sweet fancies have thronged her mind, 

Thoughts of happier days long past ? 
Hears she the roar of the dreary wind. 

The branches creaking at every blast? 
Knows she aught of the falling rain, 

Of the pitiless, merciless, driving sleet? 
Look ! she has pressed her face to the pane. 

Gazing out on the long, dark street. 



SYLVIA A. 3I0SS. 



661 



Now she has clasped her fair, white hands : 
'■'Father in Heaven, I look unto thee, 

Thou who nilost on wave and land ; 

'Tis a terrible night for ni}- lover at sea !" 

Many a year has gone to its gi'ave, 

Years with sorrow and loss in their track, 
Since her fond prayer went over the wave 

For one who might never again come back. 
Still she sits in the darkening room, 

Her poor, thin hands at rest on her knee. 
The old clock ticking still in the gloom, 

Marking the moments steadily. 
Ah ! but the face is so old and wan, 
^ And the wond'rous hair thai l^er lover called gold, 
Years ago in the days long gone, 

Has silver tlireads ; she is growing old. 
Still when she hears the wintry blast 

Singing its dirge in each leafless tree. 
Says she softly, while tears drop fast, 

'"Tis a terrible night for those at sea !" 



Sl'lbia a. ii^oss. 



Mrs. Moss, a daughter of Abner and Sarah (Jemiess) Harriman, was born in 
JJradford, \ t., in 18-18. At the ai?e of thirteen years she went with her father's 
family to Stratlord. When sixteen years of age she beiran teaching srliool and 
followed that yocation during six years. In 1872 she was married to Edward Mo.ss. 
They reside in AVorcester, Mass. 



HOW HAPPY. 

How happy must he be who fiills asleep, 

His hands full of fame's roses freshly l>lown ; 

For him the world takes ample time to weep. 
His few defects, as yet, are quite unknown. 

Those little minds that would the great undo 
Not yet their undermining have begun ; 

All speak in praise of what he wislied to do, 
AH sorrow that he left so much undone. 

Blest must he be who gently ftills asleep 
Ere any worldly blast witliers lame's roses, 

Whatever comes he will have had his day, 
A day whose sunlight only good discloses. 



662 



POETS OF NEW HAMP8HIBE. 



iii!)otia iSartlett S^fi^ti^ur. 

Mrs. Seymour, a daughter of the late Stephen Bartlett of Warner, was born in 
that town, June 29, 1S48. She was educated at Contoocook Academy, and after- 
wards at New Loudon Academy, completing at New Loudon a lour years' classical 
course, graduating in the class of 1873. In the autumn of that year she became 
jjrincipal of the High School of Littleton, INlass., and, in the following year, of the 
(jirl's High School in New Brunswick, N. J., in wliich position she taught the lan- 
guages in the boys' department of the school. Private study and instruction in 
languages was pursued while teaching in New Jersey, until her position there was 
resigned and she entered upon the study of the German language in AVashington, 
I). C. In 1879 she went as teacher to Georgetown, Colorado, and in 1881 returned 
to be married at the old homestead in Warner, to Robert G. Seymour, of Seymour, 
111., who is at present a grain merchant in Georgetown, Colorado, where they reside. 



OCTOBER. 



Oh, sweet October day, 
Jewel in Autumn's crown ! 
How shall I sing my lay 
While the merry leaves float 

down 
And lie in heaps at m}' feet, 
Golden and red and brown? 

How shall I weave some part 
Of thy dreamy, restful hours 
Into this song of my heart, 
As one of thy parting dowers 
That shall come to me again 
When winter has killed the flow- 



Leaves from the tall old trees, 
Scarlet and brown and gold. 
As they float on the mystic breeze, 
A deeper meaning hold 
Than those the same breeze 

scattered 
In the Sybil's cave of old. 

For all December's story, 
And all of April's grief 
And August's crowning glory 
Of ripened grain and sheaf. 
Are o'er and o'er repeated 
In the gold and crimson leaf. 



Soft, on the distant hills 

Lies a tender, purple mist, Bathed in a yellow light, 

And a murmured melody fills The western hills lie dim, 

The air, as I idly list As the sun sinks down from sight 

On the shore, where the pebbles Behind their purple rim, 

and waves [ed. And a stillness, almost vocal. 

Have hurriedly clasped and kiss- Falls like a vesper hymn. 



A MEASURE. 

How shall I estimate the love 

That fills my soul for thee ? 
By countless stars, by light of sun, 

By depth of boundless sea? 

Stars fade by da}-, suns sink at night. 

And treacherous is the sea. 
By Love's own height and breadth and depth 

I'll bound my love for thee ! 



ALFRED WILLIAM SAHGENT. 663 

A HOME PICTURE. 

A hill-side, bright with golden-rod 
And sweet wild asters' nodding flowers ; 
A sunset sky, whose ros}' dyes 
An idle girl with dreann' eyes 
Is watching, while the wing(^d hours 
Bear home another da^- to God. 
The late hii'ds flit along the hill, 
Or wheel in circles through the air ; 
The mountain line grows sharp and clear 
As gathering twilight brings it near, 
And sounds of noonday's work and care 
Are hushed, and in the skies 
The sickle of the harvest moon 
Gleans mid the stars, and all too soon 
The day's bright beaut}' dies ! 



A. W. Sargent was born in Warner, May 31, 1849. He was the only son of Eben- 
ezer W. and Ruth W. Sarg-cnt. Ilis father died when he was in his fourteenth year, 
leaving to him the care of a tann. Possessing a quick intellect and retentive mem- 
ory, he acquired a large amount of general information, and his poetic genius 
seemed to be the result of reading some of the gi-eat poets. He died in his native 
town, Feb. 23, ISW. 



WISDOM AND POWER DIVINE. 

How wondrous are thy works O Lord of hosts 
Omnipotent ; how manifold and vast ! 
Which as a cloud of witnesses attest 
Thy power divine, and wisdom infinite 
Displayed in their creation. In the dawn 
Of time's primeval morning thou didst call 
Chaos from nothing, and tlie warring waste 
Of crude incipient elements prepare ; 
A^nd mould and fashion from the whirling mass 
The glittering hosts of heaven, resplendent suns 
And worlds which by their revolutions mark 
The onward march of ages. By thy skill 
And power divine, those bright celestial spheres 
Unnumbered, numberless, harmoniousl}' 
Pursue their ceaseless courses, unsustained 
By visible upholding. At th}- word 
They were, and are, and to i>roclaim thy power 
Forever shall endure. This lower world 
Which as a little atom floats in space 



r»64 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

Around her central star, yet speaks of thee, 

Her maker, and in concert with the skies 

Joins the celestial song. Thou didst collect 

Her substances. Thy sovereign will divine 

Present forever in each secret part 

Of all thy vast sensorium, nature's realm, 

Here wrought thy pleasure. From her crucible 

The tested elements flowed forth in streams 

Of molten fury. Thou didst then combine. 

Those which thou wouldst combine, and separate 

Repelling parts. Rolling in frigid space 

The forming planet hardened b}- degrees. 

While ages dawned and fled. Thine eye divine 

Incessant watched the changes which th}' skill 

And power performed. B}' world-convulsing throes, 

Th}' viewless movements, were the hills upreared, 

And lofty mountain ranges. B3' the power 

Of liquid torrents and of ceaseless waves, 

Th}- tireless agents, were the rocks reduced 

To plant-sustaining soils. Thou didst create 

Earth's first primeval forests, and direct 

Their giant growth. Subservient to th}- will 

The tempests rose, and air and ocean warred 

With vegetation : like a serried host 

O'erthrown in battle, mighty forests fell. 

And, tempest-driven, in caverns vast were massed 

In bulk like buried mountains. At thy word 

The power of «ature metamorphosed them ; 

While other forests on the earth restored 

Luxuriant grew. With living creatures strange 

The seas were peopled, and upon the earth 

Unnumbered species lived, and died,. and left 

Their several links in that gi*eat chain which binds 

The present with the past. Each animal 

Which roamed in those wild solitudes, or flew 

Above the earth, or dwelt within the deep, 

Proclaimed th}' skill and wisdom, to the hosts • 

Of watching seraphim. Each chaos wild 

AVhich swept the planet desolate and bare 

Thou didst commission to prepare the waj' 

For a renewed creation. Step by step 

The might}'' work progressed. No error marred 

Its plan or execution. Thou didst view 

The end from the beginning ; in thine eye 

Each part minute of all this world appeared 

Present before thee, ere thou didst command 



HORACE B. BAKETt. (-,65 



Matter to be. Thy wisdom infinite, 

And skill divine with high omnipotence 

Harmonious wrought, and all the work was good. 

AVithin the moulded dust thou didst implant 

Thine image ; b}' th^- breath inspiring lile 

Into the silent cla}'. Creative skill, 

Unlimited, uniting with the dust 

Perception, intellect, intelligence, 

Keason, accountability, prepared 

On earth the image oi' the Deit}', 

The moral likeness of the infinite, 

Eternal God, to be the sovereign head 

Of his creation ; male and female formed, 

Each to the other complementary. 

On earth to dwell together, president 

O'er all this earthlj- mansion, to adore 

The great Creator, whose omnipotence 

Of skill divine, of wisdom, and of love, 

The earth and heavens declare, whose praises rise 

Like incense from the lips of serapliim 

Standing in glor}' round about bis throne. 



i^oracc U. i3aker. 

H. B. Baker resides in Nashua, and is a writer of prose and verse for the Maine 
Farmer, and otlier papers in Maine. 

WINTER. 

Far down below the drifted snow 
The germs of summer's beaut}' lie ; 

No leaping rills among tlie hills, 

No wild 'birds through the green boughs fl}-. 

No toiling bee on flower we see, 

No hum of insects do we hear ; 
No singing birds< no grazing herds 

On mead or hill-side now appear. 

No shady bower, no fragrant flower, 

But through the leafless branch o'erhead. 

Cold from the north the wind moans forth, 
A seeming requiem for the dead. 

The cheerless look of lake and brook, 

Fast fettered with an ic}' chain, 
The rushing blast, the sky o'ercast 

Proclaim old winter's tyrant reign. 



666 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Mrs. Andrews, whose name previous to marriage was FoUansbee, is a native of 
Manchester. Her parents removed to Massachusetts when she was a child. They 
afterwards went Soutli, and wlien the war of the Rebellion began they went 
West. Her fatlier entered the army, and after serving the whole live years of the 
war, died at last in a southern prison. In 1870 she became the wife of George G. 
Andrews of Hudson. 



EVENING. 

Slow sinks the sun behind the purple hills, 
The crickets' chirp the quiet evening fills ; 
The air is hazy with a languor sweet, 
The very zephj'rs move with noiseless feet ! 
Great waves of crimson roll from out the west 
And break upon the gray, each glitt'ring crest 
The sun's last rays have burnished into gold. 
Day's dying glory — new, and yet so old ! 

Slowly the sunset splendor fades away ; 
One golden star shines out upon the gray, 
The new moon's silver crescent just below. 
Across which fleecj' cloudlets come and go. 
A perfumed breeze comes dancing from the south, 
And whispers to the leaves, with dainty mouth. 
Of shaded rills ; of forests cool and green 
Where mosses grow with brimming brooks between. 
The distant whip-poor-will begins his song — 
"Whose melancholy notes to night belong." 
Nearer, he wings his flight with circling sweep. 
His perch at last — in shadow cool and deep — 
A clump of roses b}^ the garden walk, 
Or by the royal lilies' drooping stalk. 
"Whip-po-will ! cluck! whip-po-will, whip-po-will !" 
He sings ; till in your dreams 3'ou hear it still. 



AT REST. 

Sleep, darling, sleep ! 
The purple harebells swing like censers to and fro ; 
The long grass whispers to the roses white as snow, 
Blooming upon the lowl}' bed 
That pillows soft thy sunn}' head. 
Sleep, darling, sleep ! 

Sleep, darling, sleep ! 
The perfumed south-wind sighs among the cypress-trees. 
Rocked on the lil^'-cups drowsily hum the bees ; 



EDWABD JOHN COLCORD. C67 



Softl}', sweetly, sleepil}' sing 
The bonny birds, witli quiet wing — 
Sleep, darling, sleep ! 

Sleep, darling, sleep ! 
The shadows lengthen, and the hylas sings his song ; 
The hidden cricket chirps, and beats her tiny gong. 
The dreamy, drowsy zephyrs pass 
Gently over the fragrant grass. 
Sleep, darling, sleep ! 



EVENTIDE. 

I have tucked our darling up snugly, 
And kissed her a tender good night. 

While heavy-fringed laslies are drooping 
And hiding her fair eyes from sight. 

And now I sit here in the lamplight, 
With a basket of stockings to darn ; 

And topmost of all lies one small pair 
That are knitted of bright scarlet yarn. 

Oh yes, I find holes here in plenty — 

They cover feet restless and quick ; 
Toes that will find ways to creep out 

Through stocking, though ever so thick. 

In and out as I weave my large needle, 

I think of the time that Avill come. 
When these little feet will be straying 

From the paths of their quiet home. 

When they take their first step in life's journey, 
For the" right will they firmly stand? 

Will they walk ever onward and upward, 
i^ver on to the blest Beulah-land? 

Our Father, thou only canst answer. 

Oh, point by thy Spirit the way 
That will lead her through life's thorns and pitfalls 

To the regions of unending day. 



l£ti\]oarti Joljn iTolrovti, 

Rev. E. .1. Colcord was l»>in in Parson sfleld, Maine, July 2S, 1S49. He Jitted for 
cfilleife at the aca<ieniv in Kmii^;liam, N. H., and jfraduatL-d at Colby University in 
isT.".." After tiai'liinj;"s(liiiol two years in Beverly, Mass., he hecanie a suideulin 
Newton Theological Seminary, and alter graduatiou was settled as pastor of the 
liapllsl Church ill Amherst. 



CA'>8 POETS OF NEW HAMPSBIBE. 



ACTION. 

Oft have I felt within the ardent fire 

And passive thrill of longing stir the soul ; 

Oft great ambition fills my^ being's wliole 
With wild unrest and dreams of something higher. 
Yet what avails this flame of fond desire ? 

Cheated hy hope I miss the illusive goal, 

Or else am sta^-ed by power be3'ond control, — 
I grasp at phantoms when I would aspire. 
Then shall I deem that all this inward pain 

Of baffled aims is mocker^' at best, 
And cease to wish because I cannot gain? 

Ah, no ! ni}- heart can never idly rest : 
Though effort dies and ardor glows in vain, 

In noble toil alone is living blest. 



FAREWELL. 

The dying Greek beheld with cheerful eye 

Death's twilight fall ; life's glories pass away : 

He saw in fanc}' break another daj^ 
Whose constant sun illumed a nightless sky. 
What though with life all mortal splendors fly? 

Beyond the north-wind's blast immortal lay 

His sunlit home untouched by sad decay, — 
The blessed world where heroes never die. 
So like the Greek, dear friend, we too have known 

The shade of death when to the mingling dust 
Of centuries these storied years have flown. 

His hope is ours : beyond the moth and rust 
That mar this fleeting life the soul shall own 

A mansion deathless as the Christian's trust. 



Jfxmt ^, OTarltott. 

Frank H. Carlton is a son of nenvy G. Carlton, of Newport. He was born in thai, 
town, Oct. 8, 1849. He learned the Irurte of printer in the office of the Argus ami 
Spectator. After fitting for college at Kimball Union Academy, Meriden, he enter- 
ed Dartmouth College and was graduated in 187'2. He was for a while on the edito- 
rial staff of the Union Democrat, Manchester. He then went to Minnesota and was 
cit3' editor of the St. Paul Press. In 1874 he entered the law office of Governor C. 
K. Davis, of that city, and the next year was made Clerk of the Court, which place 
he held for nearly four years, having in the meantime been admitted to the bar. In 
1879, and during the next year, h« travelled in Europe. On his return he became 
secretary to Govei'uor John L. I'illsbury. He is now practising law in Minneapolis- 



ISABEL C. GBEENE. ^^C,[) 

THE DIVINE PLAN. 

On every side God's hand is seen ; 
The skj' so bhie, the earth so green, 
Whatever strikes the exa of man 
Is evidence of one great phm. 

Look where we will, on land or sea, 
On mountain top or flowery lea, 
In clouds above or air around 
Proofs of Omnipotence abound. 

All nature is his diadem, 
In which is set some priceless gem ; 
Man cannot add or take away. 
His part is merel}' to obey. 

The seasons pass and j'ears roll round, 
Changes on every side are found ; 
Man, bird and beast have their sliort day. 
While God's transcendent law holds sway. 

The works of man are mean and frail ; 
Our hardest toil cannot avail 
Against God's plan, which e'er appears 
In atom small and heavenly spheres. 

This wondrous earth with all its gifts 
One import has to him who lifts 
Himself above the grovelling throng. 
And lives devoid of strife and wrong. 

'Tis that we worship God, and seek 
To make each act distinctly speak 
In louder terms than words can do ; 
Though hands may err our hearts arc true. 



$!5ai3cl or. Crccnc. 

Mrs. Greene, formerly Isabel Colton, is a native of Pittsflelil, Vt. At an carlv 
ap" she removeil to this"stuto, and hur home is iu Kasluia. llor youth was devoted 
t<p mii.'^ic, which her friends regarded as her one .irift. Iiallail singringand rhiirch 
iiuisic heinf; her specialties. ^Maturer years, however, liave (leveloi)ed a talent lor 
wrilinf?, both iu prose and verse, in the former of which she is best known. 



MY LOVE.— A SONG. 

^ly love, she wears a gown of white, 

A red rose in her hair ; 
Her eyes are like the stars of night, 

Oh, mv love, she is fair ! 



670 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Her singing, as slie trips along, 
Tiie birds all list to hear, 

And die with envy at her song, 
It is so sweet and clear. 

And when she stoops above one flower, 
And takes it to her breast, 

Its heaven begins that very hour, — 
It pities all the rest. 



lEllen iimclvoijertis imason. 

Ellen McRoberts was born in Baldwin, Me., October 5, 1850, of Scotch-Irish 
parentage on the father's side. She was educated after the usual manner of fann- 
ers' daughters, at the dillcrcnt high schools and academies of the county, and at 
the Farmington (Me.) Ndriiial School. She was a teacher for a short time, until 
1873, when she was married to Mahlon L. Mason, of North Conway, the proprietor 
of one of the many summer hotels there, the Sunset Pavilion. Mrs. Mason's liter- 
ary career has begun since her marriage, and it is chiefly from her short stories am I 
descriptive articles that have appeared occasionally in the Boston Sunday Vourwr, 
the Granite Monthly, the Portland Press and Transcript, that she is known as a 
writer. Her stories have been commended by John G. Whittier. She has genuine 
pathos and humor, united to a great love and tender appreciation of nature, that 
has been fostered by living among the grand [and beautiful scenes of her present 
home. 



A CHRISTMAS MEMORY, 

Within a dear old-fashioned room. 
All flooded witli a rosy bloom. 
In the fire's gleeful blaze and glow 
I watch a vision come and go. 

'a Christmas thirty years ago ; 
The world without up-piled with snow. 
Grey, early day and children's din, 
And merry, happy hearts within. 

Glad, happy hearts save all but one. 
And his, whose life was last begun, 
The pet and darling of the rest. 
The one I alwa^'s loved the best. 

My troop of boys, I see them now, 
Grave Jamie with his thoughtful brow. 
And Will and Georgie full of glee. 
As handsome lads as you might see. 

And Robin with his glowing face. 
And earnest ej'es and witcliing grace ; 
Ah, I shall see long as I live 
That little mouth so sensitive ! 



ELLEN JSIGB0BEBT8 MASON. ^ 671 

But Rob bad been a naught}' boy, 
And so, instead of longed-for toy, 
Above his stocking Jammed and thick, 
I hung a cruel, slender stick ! 

"Mamma does Santa Clans hate me?" 
The tear-wet face was sad to see ! 
"That stick — I did not think he would — 
I've tried so, latel}', to be good !" 

'Tis j'ears agone and I am old, 
And man}' feelings have grown cold. 
But when the vision comes again 
I feel the olden thrill of pain ! 

For soon there was a little mound 
Thrown up above the frozen ground. 
And the pure white and blessed snow, 
Soft hid the scar of my great woe. 

Though man}' sins and many a wrong 
Have been mine since, forgot ere long, 
This ever comes at Christmas time 
To haunt my age, as in m}' prime ! 

I feel now we are far apart. 
How sore I griev'd the tender heart ! 
And I shall see long as I live 
That little mouth so sensitive ! 



MY DEAD LOVE. 

They gazed upon her sweet, pale form 
No earthly kiss nor clasp could warm ; 

And moaned, "How hard that she should die !" 
But I who loved her faintest sigh, 

I, knowing how her heart had bled. 
Thought, "Better far that she is dead !" 

For we had met when far too late. 
And she was chained by cruel fate, 

And we could only live apart 

Who should have lived as heart to heart. 

First since her death has set us free 
1 feel that she belongs to me. 



G72 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

And in the land she enters in 
Is her love counted there a sin? 

Among ns all, ah, who can say? 
We wait the light of clearer da}'. 

But now that death has set us free, 
As I love her does she love me? 



UNRECONCILED. 

I sit within a dismal room ; 

A cheer}' fire burns low. 
And sends athwart the tender gloom, 

A rosy, dull, soft glow. 

It gleams on gilt and pictures rare. 
On bronze and silk and lace ; 

On flowers, books, and all things fair, 
But not on the sweet face 

Of my own bright, home-keeping dove. 
The form of sprightful grace, 

The large, brown eyes alight with love, 
Brown head and sweetest face. 

The lovel}' face a year ago 
Made radiant all things here, 

It gave the fire's heartsome glow 
And lent the sunny cheer. 

They tell of sorrows she has flown, 

And prate of her blest lot ; 
I shrink with dread from life alone, 

And mourn the time that's not. 

I hate their talk of saintly joys. 
Their wondrous fnr-oft' land ; 

I want the thrill of her soft voice, 
The touch of her warm hand ! 

Might die the hope to be forgiv'n 

Were we not far apart ! 
For better than the hope of heaven 

The smile that warmed my heart ! 



A 



CLARA E. BOLLES. (573 



MY MONITOR. 

My little boy with large ej-es eager wide, 

And lips a-tremble, piteous to see, 
Comes often slow and gravely to my side, 

And humble, lowly asks, '"'Do you love me?" 

With kiss and fond embrace I answer him, 

Agrief to see the pretty face so sad ; 
Still swimming, tender tears the blue eyes dim, 

He pleads : "And do you love me when I'm bad ? " 

How oft we grieve the Father's loving heart ! 

How oft rebellious are, dear little lad ; 
He pardons when we choose the wrong, sad part. 

And loves us evermore, though we are bad ! 

So may much patience mingle with my love. 

And I grow fitter still to council thee 
With purest wisdom given from above. 

And may the patient Father bear with me ! 



oriara IE. iSolleg. 

Miss Bolles is a native of Richmond, where slie resides. 



"JESUS ON THE SHORE." 

Through the night of sin we journeyed, 

Stumbling oft beside the way. 
For the clouds hung thick above us, 

Veiling every stany ra}-. 
Then there came a voice to cheer us. 

One we ne'er had heard before, 
Lo ! the morning light was breaking, 

"Jesus stood upon the shore." 

Sorrow's wing was brooding o'er us. 

And we knew not where we trod, 
For the tear-drops dimmed our vision 

As we felt the chastening rod. 
Then a light slione through the darkness. 

And we whispered o'er and o'er, 
"Grief depart, your reign is over, 

Jesus stands upon the shore." 

Want and woe were hastening toward us, 
Pallid phantoms, stern and grim, 



674 POETS OF NEW HAMP8HIBE. 

And we knew not how to pass them, 
For our faith was growing dim. 

But the hand of love that led us 
Kindled up the flame once more, 

And we felt the blest assurance — 
"Jesus stands upon the shore." 

And this thought will come to cheer us. 

Drifting on life's ocean wide, 
Floating nearer, ever nearer 

To the home bej'ond the tide. 
Though the storm may sweep the waters, 

And the billows loudly roar, 
Peace, be still, we'll anchor safelj', 

"Jesus stands upon the shore." 

Death is coming, surely coming, 

And the shadows of the grave. 
But we need not fear its terrors. 

If we trust His power to save. 
Lights are gleaming in the valley, 

Shining through the crystal door, 
And in yon eternal morning, 

Jesus stands upon the shore. 



THOUGHTS. 

The day wheels slowly down the west. 
And night with star-gems on her breast, 
Enthroned within her purple car, 
Comes o'er the shadowy hills afar, 
A moon-crowned queen. 

And through the darkness' sable pall, 
And through the silence, over all, 
A strain of far-off music rings, 
And soft the touch of spirit wings 
Falls on my brow. 

I check my heav}' tears to see 

That which the daylight veils from me ; 

A vision of that unseen land, 

A ghmmer of the golden sand, 

Shines through the gloom. 

The past unlocks her golden doors, 
I wander o'er the crystal floors, 



BESSIE BISBEE HUNT. 



And there in inemor3-'s stately halls 
Sweet pictures hang upon the walls, 
To comfort me. 

Loved forms and faces come again, 
"With cheering words to soothe mv pain ; 
The}' bring a balm of sweetest flowers, 
From their own sunlit Eden bowers, 
To heal m}' heart. 

A breath, a touch, the dream is fled ; 
M}' heart with gloom is overspread ; 
I touch its strings, with saddened moan 
It echoes back, alone, alone. 
Alone on earth. 

Be still, oh heart ! Oh eyes, be clear ! 
Nor dim 3-our brightness with a tear ; 
He holds thy da3's within His hand. 
That which thou canst not understand 
He knows full well. 

If INIarah's waters fill th}' cup. 
Bow down th}' head and drink it up ; 
He mingles bitter with the sweet, 
To make the future more complete, 
Thy heaven more dear. 



Ii3cs!sie li3isil)cc l^unt. 

Mrs. Hunt was born in northern Vermont, near tlie lake Memphremagogr. She 
received lier education in Iter native state, and at l)io Lewis' Lexington Sohool. 
She studied elocution in Boston. In 1870 she was married to N. P. Hunt, a lawyer, 
of Manchester. 



KNITTING. 

When withered leaves go flitting by 

With weird, fantastic gesture. 
When earth awhile is putting on 

Her staid old russet vesture. 
When cellars hold a golden store 

The hand of toil to strengthen. 
And when across the gleaming hearth 

The shadows daily lengthen, — 

How sweet to fill the chair that tvaits 
Beside the glowing fender ; 



(j76 POETS OF NEW HA3IPSHIBE. 

To know the hand that placed it there 
With love is always tender ; 

To draw the shining needles out, 
To watch them glint and glisten, 

"While to their cheerful, stead}' click, 
Unconsciously j'ou listen. 

The soft, warm wool, a shapel}' ball, 

Upon your lap is lying, 
Or else to play at hide-and-seek 

Upon the mat is trying. 
Your cares are lulled, as in and out 

The mystic needles hurry, 
And for a while is quite o'ercome 

The arch-destroyer. Worry. 

Your thought flows backward to the days 

That shone for you the brightest ; 
Your heart beats o'er and o'er again 

Its measures that were lightest ; 
There falls a winsome, gentle breath. 

Ne'er warmed before an ingle. 
It comes from out that summer's day 

That always will be single. 

The joys that grew when love was new 

About 3'our features linger. 
As one by one the stitches fall 

From off your taper finger. 
If Kensington new glories wear. 

And Holbein seems more fitting, 
Oh, let us cherish to the last 

The homely joys of knitting. 



MOVING. 

Oh, could I that fine April morn of ray birth, 
With vision prophetic have looked o'er the earth ; 
Nay, could I have caught but a gleam of its pain, 
My eyes had refused their poor office again. 

From the gray of life's morning, way on to its close, 
There is never an end to the trail of its woes. 
There are trials degrading and trials improving, 
But the trial most vexing of all is called moving. 

Not moving a friend with compassion and love, 
Not moving with pity the angels above, 



BESSIE BISBEE HUNT. 



Not moving amendments beneath a proud dome, 
But moving your furniture, changing 30ur home. 

It isn't enougli that your boxes are packed, 
Your closets and bureaus and cupboards ransacked ; 
There are carpets, such stupid, refractor}- things, 
I only wish art could provide them with wings. 

There are deadh' encounters 'twixt funnel and stove, 
There are curtains disposed from their fixtures to rove. 
There is bric-a-brac hiding, and pictures that tell 
The torturous tale of the tumult too well. 

The turmoil of politics who can prevent ? 
Without turmoil society 'were not content ; 
But give us in quiet our homes to improve. 
And banish the s^-ren that counsels a move. 



A DEEP SECRET. 

Why is it so restless, the wonderful sea? 

'Tis kissed and caressed by the sun. 
The low winds have rocked it as soft as could be, 

Till day and night watches were done. 

The stealthy white mist in her trailing array, 

Enfolding the sun's ardent beam. 
Has given it shadows and phantoms for play, 

That might have been born of a dream. 

Yet up the sea-wall, where the cliff-eagles soar, 

It is dashing itself into spray. 
And never a moment the wide sands before 

Have its waters been willing to stay. 

You white-sheeted messengers sailing afar 
In the path of the bright beacon's glow. 

And whispers drop softly fiom man}- a star — 
The secret 3-ou surely must know. 

In mood rather haughty, triumphant ma}- be, 

I have heard the sad story before ; 
Did it cast from its bosom, unknowing, poor sea. 

The one precious gem of its store ? 

Then beat of your woe the unending refrain. 
Against the lone cliff and the cave ; 

Search over and over the sands of the main 
A treasure your white lips would lave. 



678 



POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 



The winds ma}' not cradle or lull you to rest, 
But hearken, I'll tell you it low. 

On shore there is beating in man}- a breast 
The unresting throbs of your woe. 



Hora iElla ati^cUiis. 

Miss Chellis is a native of Barre, Vermont. Since her early childhood she has 
resided in Claremont. She was educated at Stevens High School, at Kimball Union 
Academy and at Mt. Holyoke Female Seminary. 



HEART'S-EASE. 



All among the grasses 
By the vallej'-streara, 
Hidden in the clover 
Where the dew-drops gleam. 
For the passing stranger. 
Waits a happy dream. 

Years ago the summer 
Shone upon a maid 
Weeping, faint, and lonely. 
Where the shadows played, — 
Sorrows rose to greet her 
W^heresoe'er she strayed. 

Dearest of Earth's blessings 
Given from the sky. 
More than all else meaning, 
Balm for every sigh, — 
Mother-love had left her, 
For the home on high. 

With a tearful blessing 
She had breathed a prayer, — 
■•'IMa}' the gracious Father 
All your sorrows share. 
Send in mercy heart's-ease 
With your earthly care." 



As she wept in sadness 
All the lonely hours. 
Quietly there blossomed 
Fairy little flowers, — 
Fresh, as they had fallen, 
From eternal bowers. 

Soft as purple velvet 
Painted in with gold. 
Smiling from the grasses. 
They their story told, — 
"We are little heart's ease 
From the heavenly fold." 

f 
Through the world of sadness. 
Mid the tears of woe. 
Where the smiles of gladness 
Lend a radiant glow, — 
In our every pathway, 
There the "pausies" grow. 

Pansy thoughts for heart's ease,- 
INIay the}^ ever bloom ; 
May we ne'er forget them 
In our hours of gloom ; — 
For they bring a blessing 
From beyond the tomb. 



AUTUMN LEAVES. 

Twisted and sere are the leaflets, 
Naked and ghastly the trees. 

Nothing but skeleton branches, 
After the autumnal freeze. 



LOB A ELLA CHELLIS. 679 

Faded the garlands of summer. 

Stricken the wild forest's pride ; 
Flown are the fairy-like songsters, 

Over the white-foaming tide. 

Slowly the emerald verdure 

Changed to a fiery hue, 
Mocking the bright-circled rainbow 

Hung in the soft azure blue. 

Gail}' they tossed in the breezes 

Laughed at the swift, chilling blast. 
Recked not that during the darkness 

Sentence of death had been passed. 

Slowly and sadly the leaflets 

Came fluttering, one b}' one, — 
Faster, till onl}' the branches 

Gazed at the slow-setting sun. 



THE GENTIANS. 

The twilight shades bad fallen Shone like a silver tear-drop, 
Upon the toilworn day, Framed round with velvet hue. 

"While dews of evening mercy ^ ^ ■u^ i j 

Refreshed the heated way; ^"^ P^^f' ^^^^ «"P ^^«««^^ 

'' quickly. 

And, when the moon shone In cold and selfish greed, 

golden And one was stretched in glad- 

Above the starlit hours, ness. 

There came, among the shadows, To fill the stranger's need. 

The angel of the flowers. ^, , , -,.,,.,,., 

The hedges and the hill-sides 

The purple asters brightened, Wear man}- gentians blue. 
The golden-rods grew fair. And oft as summer waneth, 

And many a dream-thought The gentian tale is new. 

blossomed ^ . ^. , , . 

Upon the midnight air. J^^^" gentians closed in sadness 

Receive no blessed light, 
AJl weary, in the gloaming, Yet dream of falling dew-drops 
The angel passed in haste. Through all the weary night. 

Where merry-hearted gentians . . . . . , . , , 
Smiled fromthe hedgerow waste.^"^ g^^^'''^"'' ^'''''^^'^ "'^/li beauty 

Smile on the opening day ; 
Within each fragile chalice And oft an angel pauseth 

A di'op of crystal dew To greet them on its way. 



680 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 



Eetitia M> Etrams. 



Miss Letitla M. Adams, formerly of New Boston, resides in Goffstown, and is a 
constant contributor of verse to the Farmers' Cabinet. 



VIOLETS. 

Oh ! beautiful the buds and flowers 

That bloom in bower and hall, 
The glor}' of the summer'hours 

Has gathered round them all, 
And painted, with a deeper glow 

Than human art can claim, 
The tiny leaflets, one b}' one. 

That form each tiny frame. 

But not for me the tender plants 

That bloom in hall and bower ; 
My heart, amid the forest wilds, 

Would seek a lowlier flower ; 
The little violet, blue and white. 

That lifts its modest head 
Upspringing from its mossy banks 

When winter's winds have fled, 

To me a nobler lesson speaks, 

A richer prize I claim. 
Though humble be its resting place, 

And humbler still its name ; 
Its simple robes of pearly white 

Or azure blue outweigh, 
Cast in the balance, all the bloom 

That decks the garden way. 

Up through the earth so bleak and bare, 

Up through the clinging sod. 
To heaven it lifts a smiling face, 

With perfect trust in God ; 
An earnest purpose full and free, 

A calm and steadfast will, 
A strength to do, to dare, to be, 

Wrought in its nature still, 

Imparts new vigor to the soul, 

As bending o'er its l)ed 
I caught these meanings, as the whole 

Unwritten page I read, — 



LETITIA M. ADAMS. C81 

Unwritten, save by angel hands 

Unstained by human art, 
I claim thee, mid earth's bright arra}', 

The floweret of the heart. 



FROM SHORE TO SHORE. 

From shore to shore, from shore to shore, 

Adown life's rapid river. 
The unwearied boatman plies the oar, 

Forever and forever. 
We brave the storm, we stem the tide, 

Though fierce the waves are breaking. 
We know that on the farther side 

The morning light is waking. 

We leave behind the home scenes sweet, .' 

Lost in the mellow gloaming, 
To seek a city's golden streets 

Where state)}' spires are looming ; 
While fiiinter flow life's golden sands. 

And faint, and fainter ever, 
We leave at morn loved household bands, 

We meet on earth, no, never. 

The infant in the mother's arms, 

The brown-eyed, merry rover, 
Cries, "Mamma, see, the boatman pale 

Has come to take me over." 
The maiden clasps the lover's form 

In fond though last embracing. 
Ere he, upon the white ship's deck. 

Death's stormy tide is facing. 

The husband bids the wife farewell, 

The daughter bids the mother. 
While hand in hand with friendly clasp 

The sister leaves the brother. 
Old age and youth, a motly crew. 

The vessel sides adorning. 
Sail gladl}' forth, where full in view 

There beams a brighter morning. 

From shore to shore, from shore to shore, 

We're passing on forever ; 
Our pilot glides us safe!}- o'er 

The dim and shadowv river. 



682 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

We brave the storm the waters o'er, 
Though fierce the waves are breaking, 

Our boat has neared the "shining shore," 
A heavenl}- morn is waking. 



Crace IB. ^^ictoing. 

Miss Pickerins: resides in Portsmouth, ttie place of her nativity. 



EESTED. 

One day, a fog of sober care 

Had covered the horizon fair ; 

No cheerful light was shining there, 

"No heart for nierr}^ words," said we ; 

"We'll just endure, and silent be ; 

E'en silence will be triumph grand. 

Since friction galls, on every hand." 

Life's savor, for a moment, fled. 

And left distrust and doubt instead. 

The just return, we diml}' saw, 

For all that mortals struggle for. 

We said, "Oh, life doth circles make, 

And steps of progress fails to take." 

Just then, in friendship's vital name, 

A kind and helpful presence came ; 

Backward and forth the signals sped. 

Till — thought, exchanged, was comforted. 

Life's irritation slighter seemed. 

And care, though present, was redeemed ; 

And flavor's blessed prick returned. 

And we, bright possibles, discerned. 

No joy but friendship's ever crept 

So near to where life-springs are kept. 

No drop of oil, to touch life's wheels, 

So surel}' all their friction steals. 

No current of galvanic force 

So sends the blood along its course. 

Ever, as soon as it is known. 

The quickened pulses raise their tone. 

As though a northern breeze had blown. 

The mist its pure breath flies before ; 

Fair weather paints the west once more ! 



L UC Y BENTLE Y WIG GIN. 08^, 



Hues iJcutlcg aiHiggin. 



I.ucy B Wigjrin was 'born In Lo-well, Mass., July 6, 1850. The greater part of hor 
life was «pcnt in AVakelield. At her gratluatiDn from the Xormal School at Salem, 
Mass in 18(!9, she was chosen class poet, and the poem written for that oceaslon, 
"The Strength of tlie Hills," was the first of hers that appeared in print Her liter- 
ary work was done within a period of about six years, much of it while she was 
teaching. She was a frequent contributor in prose and verse to the Christian Uukw, 
the Congregationalist, and the Kew England Journal of Kducation, and an oc- 
casional contributor to several other papers, and to the children's magazine now 
called St. Nicholas. She died Jan. 26, 1876. 



THE LIFE THAT NOW IS. 

Not gazing alwa3-s toward the far blue sky, 

With idle wish to see an angel pass, 
But mindful of the soft winds drifting by, 

The wealth of green, the sunlight on the grass, 
I stoop to pick the flowers around my feet, 
Thinking God loved them when he made them sweet ; 

Thinking that he would have me love them too — 
The daisies, and the clover red and white. 

The shy, wild roses, sparkling yet with dew, 
The blue-ej-ed grass, uplifted to the light — 

And thanking him that with such beauty here 

He gave the seeing eye, the hearing ear. 

Not longing for the tranquil evening hour. 
When busy plans must all be laid aside, 

When active hands and brain must lose their power. 
And with their half-done work rest satisfied ; 

But, drinking in the blessed morning air, 

I watch the climbing sun with eager prayer : 

''The whole long day is thine, O Lord," I say, 
••With all its happy, helpful work to do; 

For single eye and steady- hand I pray. 

To do my part ere yet the day is through." 

The noon must come, and afterward the night. 

But first and best is this glad morning light ; 

This light in which our duties stand out clear. 
When earth and sky alike are free from doubt, 

When even distant mountain tops draw near. 

And far-off pine-trees stretch their branches out ; 

Uncertain yet 1 feel what life may give, 

Ikit certain that it is a blessed thing to live. 

To live is Christ ; not glorious death alone 
Unites us with the Master, at whose feet 



G84 POETS OF NEW EAMP8HIBE. 

The small, brown sparrow never fell unknown, 
And ne'er unheeded bloomed the lilj' sweet. 
By walking in His footsteps we may see ' 
How fair and good our common life can be. 



THANKSGIVING DAY. 

The toil-crowned j'ear is drawing to a close, 

The weary earth has laid her down to rest ; 
No dreams of spring disturb her deep repose. 
Or stir the cold hands clasped across her breast. 
The harvest labor done. 
No new work 3'et begun, 
Why should not man with one brief pause be blest ? 

Not labor only is the gift of God, 

But mirth and J03' he freely doth commend. 
When, after countless turnings of the sod. 

The season's fruits have reached their perfect end. 
Then shall our portion be. 
With happ}' hearts, care-free. 
To taste the blessings which the Lord doth send. 

This is our one bright day of leisure sweet 

In all the busy, bleak New England year ; 
In this brief space do friends long parted meet, 
And life seeins wholly merriment and cheer. 
Around us and above. 
Divine and human love 
Make heavenly sunshine in this lower sphere. 



lEtiitf) IE. 3MiS5in. 

Miss Wiggin, a sister of the late Miss Lucy B. Wiggin, resides in Maplewood, 
Mass. Hit early life was passed in Wakefield, where is still her home in sunimer.s 
and autumns. 



ADVENT. 

1 "Where is the promise of His coming?" 

Throughout the Christian world, 

With banners half unfurled 
Expectant stand the waiting multitude : 

Hosannas jet unsung 

Tremble on every tongue 
With holy awe and reverent J03' endued. 



EDITH E. WIGGIN. CS.J 



Above, the belfry chime 

Waits the appointed time 
To hei'ald forth the coming of His feet ; 

While sacred walls within 

Are hung with living green, 
Of life that never dies the emblem meet. 
Soon shall appear the Dnyspring from on high ; 
The darkness fades, behold ! the daAvn is nigh ! 

E'en now o'er land and sea 

The lessening shadows flee 
Before the light : along the eastern sky, 

In lines of gold and rose 

The promise glows. 

Shall lips of listening choirs 

And bells in lofty spires 
Meet the first Gloria of the angelic throng. 

And not, oh heart, in thee 

An answering melody 
The music of the heavenly host prolong? 

With holy zeal and love, 

And works t\\y faith to prove. 
Within thyself thy Bethlehem prepare ; 

Bring to His waiting shrine 

The best of what is thine, 
Th}" gold and frankincense of praise and pra3'er 
So shall the truest, best fulfilment be 
Of type and sign and ancient prophec}". 

And when Plis burning star 

Shines in the east afar, 
Rejoice with heart and Aoice, for unto thee 

On the glad Christmas morn 

Shall Christ be born ! 



OCTOBER VIOLETS. 

We stood in the edge of the forest, 
The friend of my heart and I, 

Where the sunset glow of the maples 
Met the sunset glow of the sky. 

A breath of the coming winter 

Came down from the pine-clad hill ; 

Its shadows crept over the landscape. 
And over our hearts its chill. 



6.SG POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

We talked of our sunny childhood, 

Of hopes that long ago 
We had watched with the opening blossoms 

As lightly come and go. 

The dreams of our earl}- morning 
Like the dew had passed awa}^ ; 

Our skies of gold and crimson 
Had turned to leaden gra}-. 

In the years that lay before us, 

Half seen through the distant haze. 

The winters grew drearily longer, 
And briefer the summer da^'s. 

Like a breath from the far-off south-land 
Came a fragrance faint and sweet. 

And behold ! blue violets nestled 
Low down in the grass at our feet. 

As brightl}" they bloomed in their beaut}^, 
At the close of that autumn day, 

As when they were tenderly folded 
In the blossomy arms of Ma}-. 

Then one to the other spoke softl}- : 
"Oh friend, let our grievings cease ; 

Let us take to our hearts with gladness 
This message of light and peace. 

"Let us lift our eyes to the future 
With a steady, trustful gaze, 

For violets still are waiting 
To bloom in October days." 



This poet and musician was born in Springfield, Sept. 30, 1850. He was educated 
at Colby Academy, New London, graduating tliere in 1867. Afterwarils he went to 
Boston and engaged in mercantile pursuits. During the past twelve years he has 
been a frequent contributor, both in prose and verse, to periodical publications of 
that citv. He is also author of several musical works, both vocal and instrumen- 
tal, and is leader of a successful musical organization, known as "Messer's Oi'ches- 
tra." 



KEARSARGE. 

The mountain side is broad and steep, 

The mountain top is gray and hoary ; 
'Tis toilsome up the the crags to creep. 



MELVIN J. MESSER. 6X; 



But oh ! how grand the burst of glory 
AVhich breaks upon the 'raptured sight 
"When once attained its utmost height ! 

On BA'er}' side are fragments strewn 
Of massive, pre-historic boulders, 

Vast buttresses of ragged stone ; 

Not that which crumbles, rots and moulders, 

But that Avhich stands in strength sublime, 

Defying storm and sun and time. 

Adown the slopes in sombre green 

The old, primeval forest reaches. 
Tall hemlocks, bosky spruce between, 

Then groves of maple, birch and beeches, 
And at its base, in fruitful pride. 
The fertile fields stretch far and wide. 

Bright, gem-like lakes flash far and near. 
Like diamonds in an emerald setting, 

And forest brooks creep, cool and clear. 

Through wood}- glades, their ripples wetting 

The tangled wild flowers at their edge. 

Or murmuring low through marshy sedge. 

O scene of beauty, vast and fair ! 

My heart goes out to thee in gladness. 
And loses, in thy mountain air. 

Each thought of sorrow, care and sadness. 
The Switzer's land, the world at large 
Can ne'er o'ermatch our own Kearsarge ! 



ULTIMA THULE. 

Afar from this world, which is fruitful alone in dissensions ; 
Afar from its turmoil and noise and incessant commotion ; 
Afar from its dead, and the sound of the groans of its dying. 

Alone will I wander. 

And yet not alone : my Psj'che, my soul, thou art with me. 
Together we'll seek the fair, tranquil Hesperian gardens 
That lie o'er the outermost bounds of the measureless ocean. 

Far, far to the westward. 

How soft are the airs which just stir the voluptuous ether ! 
The languorous breathings of viols and flutes and softcytherns 
Are not more caressing, more thrillingly sweet to the hearing 

Thau these to our senses. 



G88 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Then let us recline at our will in this beautiful Aidenn, 
Where, glancing aslant through the shining green foliage above us, 
The apples of gold gleam athwart the deep blue of the heavens, 

A wonderful picture ! 

The vast, mighty pulse of the m3-stic and strange world around us 
Throbs calmly and strong in a God-like, melodious rhj'thm, 
In perfect accord are the heavens, the earth, and the ocean — 

The Cosmos of nature. 

Oh ! could we prolong to the eve of our dual existence 
This state of enchantment, this dwelling at will in elysium, 
Like the eons of dreams of the tranquil-eyed eaters of Lotos, 

How blest were our living ! 

But we must awake and awaj" o'er the measureless ocean ; 
AVe must taste once again of the bitterness wrung from the real ; 
We must mingle with darkness, with sorrow, with crime, and 
with curses, 

Alas for dur dreaming ! 



Geo. S. Dorr was born in Wakefield, May 12, 1851. At the age of 20 years he be- 
gan the carpenter's trade, and that was his principal occupation till 1881, when he 
engaged in the printing business by establishing the Carroll County Pioneer at 
Wolfeborough Junction. 



NEW ENGLAND HOMESTEADS. 

Others may sing of the south -land warm, 

Where never the cold winds blow, 
W^here never is felt the chilling storm, 

Or is seen the drifts of snow. 
Where the soft breeze sweeps, with its breath of balm. 
Through the groves of orange and stately- palm. 

The land may be fair, and warm its skies, 

Each breeze with sweetness laden. 
And bright the glance from the midnight eyes 

Of dark-haired southern maiden ; 
But New England's homes are dearer to me 
Than this southern brightness ever could be. 

And far awa}' in the sunset land. 

They sa}- the rivers that flow 
Leave gold upon their glittering sands, 

As down to the sea they go ; 



GEORGE 8. DORB. ggQ 



And whoever may reach that golden shore, 
Shall search not in vain for the shining ore. 

Oh, wealth maj' be there for those who reach 

Those vallej-s by hills unrolled, 
But who would leave his New England home, 

For a head-stone of yellow gold ; 
And thousands who go to that sunset land 
Find only a grave mid its golden sand. 

There is wealth amid New England's hills, 

For those who earnestly strive. 
And he who wisely his acres tills, 

I^ one who will surely thrive ; 
The man with a farm mid New England's shade 
Has a crown of wealth which never will fade. 

The sunshine falls with a loving lioht 

On the homestead old and brown, 
And breezes sweet with the dews of night 

From the mountain-tops sweep down ; 
And no south-land owns a sweeter perfume 
Than comes from New England's flowers in bloom. 

'Tis no sunny south-land now I sing, 

'Tis no golden sunset plain. 
Nor prairie land whose acres bring 

Their wealth of golden grain ; 
But New England homesteads made bright and fair 
By the rosy-cheeked maidens dwelling there. 

Though no orange-trees our valleys fill, 

And we see no stateh* palms, 
There are groves of pine on every hill, 

That can boast a thousand charms ; 
Though our rivers wash up no sands of gold. 
They're the means of bringing us wealth untold. 

Stay in the homestead, though old it seems. 

And stick to New England now, 
There is wealth in her valleys and streams. 

And health on her mountains' brow ; 
And hearts that are warm mid the snow and rime 
As any that beats in a southern clime. 



690 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

THE MINSTREL'S SUMMER HOME. 

Inscribed to John G. Whittier. 

New Hampshire's granite hills look clown 

On many a lovely vale, 
Where sweetly scented meadows mark 

The river's winding trail ; 
And here and there a giant tree, 

Like sentries dark and grim. 
Shows where the primal forest stood, 

In ages past and dim. 

There's wooded hill and granite ledge. 

With fairy lake between, 
And nooks where bloom the sweetest flowers, 

And twines the evergreen ; 
Fair nature in a pleasant mood 

Hath smiled on hill and dell. 
And fashioned many a lovely glen 

That holds a witching spell. 

But yet no single spot can claim 

More lavish gifts from her, 
Than vales and hills of Ossipee, 

With groves of spruce and fir ; 
No fairer stream than Bearcamp flows 

Through flowery meads along, 
And mingles with the gentle breeze 

The burden of its song. 

And here, amid these S3-lvan scenes, 

To rest his weary feet. 
When summer's throbbing pulse is high 

There comes a singer sweet ; 
"Among the hills" of health and balm, 

He seeks his days of rest 
In pleasant nooks, by winding streams," 

That seem to him the best. 

And here he weaves some pleasant rh^'me 

From threads by nature spun. 
And mingles in the golden web 

The rays of summer's sun ; 
Each note within his happy song 

A child may understand, 
And catch the rh3thm, pure and sweet, 

Of music deep and grand. 



GEOEGE S. DOBB. (,91 



Sweet singer of our northern bills, 

Our valleys and our streams, 
You throw around us, by 30ur words, 

The happiness of dreams ; 
And each New England heart shall call 

For thee a blessing down. 
And weave a spra}- of amaranth, 

Within thy laurel crown. 

New England's son thou e'er hast been, 

And love th}- mother still. 
Nor seek beyond New England's pale 

For joys tli}- heart to fill ; 
You've sung her praises loud and long. 

And seeds of love have sown, — 
For sweetest lays her poet sings, 

She claims you as her own. 

We gladl}' own the spell j-ou weave 

Around our simple hearts. 
And thank 3'ou for the spring of J03' 

That never more departs ; 
Your verses, rich with tenderness. 

We ever love to scan ; 
You teach us how to worship God, 

B}' more of love to man. 

You love the scent of birch and pine, 

We read it in 3'our song ; 
You love the Bearcamp's winding stream, 

That gentl}' flows along ; 
You love the hills of Ossipee, 

You love the elm-tree's shade. 
And love to worship at the shrine 

Which nature there hath made ; 

And in your pleasant home, beside 

The smiling Merrimack, 
You hear the call the}- send to you, 

And gladl}- answer back ; 
In many seasons, past and gone. 

Thy feet have wandered there, 
And through the heart there ran a jo}'. 

Mid verdure soft and fair. 

And 'tis our trust that man}' more. 
Thy footsteps still ma}- press 



692 POETS OF NEW HABIPSHIBE. 

The grassy paths that wind among 
This pleasant wilderness ; 

And may the charm be potent still 
To wake the tuneful strain, 

That we may hear th}- happy song, 
Yet o'er and o'er again. 

Accept this humble lay of mine, 

Imperfect though it be ; 
It only seeks to breathe respect 

And grateful love for thee. 
No word that 1 can speak to-day 

Can raise thy fame more high, 
For in New England's happy homes, 

Thy memory ne'er can die. 



Professor Richardson was born In Hallowell, Maine, May 29, 1851 ; graduated at 
Dartmouth iu 1871; was an editor of the Independent, New York, 1872 — 1877; an ed- 
itor of the Sunday School Times, Philadelphia, 1878—1880; engaged in literary work 
in New York, 1880—1882; and elected professor of Anglo-Saxon and English in 
Dartmouth College, 1882. In 1879 a volume of his poetry was published in Phila- 
delphia entitled "The Cross." 



CHILD'S HYMN AT NIGHTFALL. 

Jesus, Jesus, 

The day is almost done. 
The shadows % across the sk}'. 

The night is coming on ; 
And through the fading western light 
A great red star is shining bright. 

Jesus, Jesus, 

The stars are very high. 
And higher far than highest star 

Thou reiguest in the sky ; 
Yet here beside me. Lord, thou art. 
With waiting ear and loving heart. 

Jesus, Jesus, 

The wrongs that I have done, 
Both great and small, thou knowest all ; 

Forgive them, every one ; 
So shall my sleep be sweet and sound, 
And guardian angels cluster round. 



CHABLES FBANCIS BICHARDSON. G93 

Jesus, Jesus, 

Oh, bless not onl}- me ; 
With Thy strong arm defend from harm 

All who need help from thee ; 
And since thou knowest whom I love, 
Send all a blessing from above. 

Jesus, Jesus, 

O King of Paradise, 
When shines the light of morning bright 

Ope thou my willing e3'es ; 
Or if earth's morn I never see. 
Take me, my Saviour, home to thee ! 



SERVICE. 

If life were naught but living, 
And death were only death. 

Would life be worth the giving. 
Would men thank God for breath? 

Ah no ! for sweeter, dearer. 
To toil, and pray, and fast, 

Lf so the Lord draw nearer, 
And bring his peace at last. 

Who follows him, sees mercies 

In every bitter pain ; 
Who follows not, finds curses 

Beneath all worldlj' gain. 



COMFORT. 

A single word is a little thing, 

But a soul ma}' be dying before your eyes 
For luck of the comfort a word may bring. 

With its welcome help and its sweet surprise. 

A kindl}' look costs nothing at all. 

But a heart ma}' be starving for just one glance 
That shall show b}- the eyelid's tender fall 

The help of a pit^'ing countenance. 

It is easy enough to bend the ear 
To catch some tale of sore distress ; 

But men may be fainting beside us here, 
For longing to share their weariness. 



694 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

These gifts nor silver nor gold may buy, 

Nor the wealth of the richest of men bestow, 

But the comfort of word, or ear, or eye 
The poorest may oflfer wherever he go. 



HOPE. 



When thick on our hearts fall the clouds of the night, 
And grief and distress banish joy from our sight. 
Though deep in the darkness of sorrow we grope, 
We bear in our bosoms the promise of hope. 

When woe, sin, and death whisper naught but despair, 
And there fades from our lips the sweet purpose of prayer, 
Then back to our Father does hope lead the way, 
And fair in the gloom shines the promise of day. 

Or if God in his love grant us gladness and peace, 
Think not that the gifts of his bounty shall cease ; 
Still onward points hope, for God's future is long. 
To the wise shall come wisdom, and strength to the strong. 



SACRIFICE. 

Short is the lesson the master hath taught us. 
Plain is its meaning, that all men may know ; 

Close in your heart hide the gift that he brought us. 
Out in your life let its influence go. 

This is the word that he brought us from heaven : 
Give unto others the things you count dear ; 

Not for yourself be the life you are given ; 
Not all 3'our own be your happiness here. 

Speed thee to labor, and sorrow, and trial, 
Strong be the heart that is weary and sore ; 

Welcome be hate, and neglect, and denial. 
If but the Master hath known them before. 

So shall your heritage all be immortal. 

Thieves shall not steal it, nor canker destroy ; 

Glimpses of glorj' shall brighten death's portal, 
Sorrow and sacrifice rise into joy. 



CHARLES FBANCIS HICHAItDSON. G95 



WORSHIP. 

Brave spirit, tliat will brook no intervention, 
But thus alone before th}- God dost stand, 

Content if he but see thy heart's intention, — 

Wh}' spurn the suppliant knee and outstretched hand ? 

Sweet soul, that kneelest in the solemn glory 

Of yon cathedral altar, while the prayer 
Of priest or bishop tells thine own heart's stor}', — 

Why think that they alone heaven's keys may bear? 

Man worships with the heart ; for wheresoever 
One burning pulse of heartfelt homage stirs, 

There God shall straightway find his own, and never, 
In church or desert, miss his worshippers. 



STRENGTH. 

The power that shaped the everlasting hills 

Can nerve with ghostly strength the Christian's arm. 

For God himself his servants' hope fulfils. 
And bids them onward go, secure from harm. 

If he defend us not, our strength shall fail. 
Though set about with all that man can give. 

But helped by God, the weakest shall not quail, 
The fainting shall arise, the dead shall live. 

Nor need we wait for some great crucial day 
Before we seek in God's defence to stand ; 

He guides the sweeping planets on their wa}', 
But leads his little children b}- the hand. 



IMITATION. 

Where shall we find a perfect life whereby 
To shape our lives for all eternity ? 

This man is great and wise ; the world reveres him. 
Reveres, but cannot love his heart of stone ; 

And so it dares not follow, though it fears him, 
But bids him walk his mountain path alone. 

That man is good and gentle ; all men love him, 

Yet dare not ask his feeble arm for aid ; 
The world's best work is ever far above him. 

He shrinks beneath the storm-capped mountain's shade. 



696 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

O loveless strength ! O strengthless love ! the Master 
Whose life shall shape our lives is not as thou ; 

Sweet Friend in peace, strong Saviour in disaster, 
Our heart of hearts enfolds thine image now ! 

Be Christ's the fair and perfect life whereby 
We shape our lives for all eternity. 



€^eorge Si^altio Uroicone, 

This poet and novelist was born in Deerfleld, Oct. 8, 1851. Possessing a vivid 
imagination and a Iceen aptitude for tiie study of liuman nature lie began sketch 
writing at an early age. He has written for Boston, New York and Chicago pa- 
pers over fifty romances. He has contributed poems to the Rural Home, and 
Yankee Blade, of Boston, to the New York Saturday Journal, Golden Argosy, and 
to the Granite Monthly of this State. He is editor of The American Young Folks, 
published in Manchester. 



EVER CHANGING. 

After the darkness comes the light, 
Chasing the shadows swift away ; 

After the storm, the sunshine bright, 
Giving to earth a gladsome dsiy. 

After the trial comes release. 
Bringing to life a joyful calm ; 

After the sorrow, then the peace, 

Healing the heart with soothing balm. 

After the seed the harvest- time. 

Yielding to all what they have sown. 

Whether to youth or manhood's prime, 
Many a flower with tares o'ergrown. 

After the work is laid aside 

Comes the hour of needed rest ; 

Over the darkly flowing tide 
Lies beyond a haven blest. 

Ever is life thus marked with care 
Changing ^oy and pain and all ; 

Sunshine but casts a shadow where 
Lingering rays are wont to fall. 



ALWAYS LOOK UP. 

Though friends prove false and trust betray, 
Or deeds unwise lead you astray, 



QEOBGE WALDO BROWN. G97 



Thus making life seem drear and cold, 
And shadow round thee casts its fold, 
Look bravely up, and never down ; 
'Tis best to smile, and never frown. 

Although misfortune seems 30ur part, 
And disappointment clouds your heart, 
Or sorrow shrouds 3'our soul in gloom. 
And drear despair doth point its doom, 
Look bravely up, and never down ; 
^Tis best to smile, and never frown. 

Thus come in weal or come in woe, 
Bj' hand of friend or work of foe. 
The cares to-day, the fears for morrow. 
Though life doth bring distress and sorrow, 
Look always up, and never down ; 
'Tis best to smile, and never frown. 



MOUNT PAWTUCKAWAY. 

Monarch of the hills around, 

Valle3-s fair and grim ravine. 
Grand th}- rugged form, rock-bound. 

Clad in garb of sombre green. 
With thy massive summit crowned 

By the sunlight's golden sheen, 

Deep and dark thy caverns lie, 

Flanked with granite seamed and sheer ; 
And th}' frowning crags on high 

Straight their dizzy heights uprear, 
Till the}' dim tiie gazing eye. 

Till the heart recoils with fear. 

Could we lift Time's magic vail 

Strange the scenes thou wouldst impart — 
Many a jo}' and bitter wail 

•Locked within thy rocky heart. 
Stamped on every rift's a tale ; 
Every crag, a wilder part ! 

Lo ! the eagle vigil kept 

O'er th}' wild domain, erstwhile ; 

As with peace the panther slept 
In some dell or dark defile ; 

And unharmed the reptile crept 
'Long some lonely, forest aisle. 



698 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

Or anon there burst in view, 

Like a flash, the bounding deer, 
As a backward glance he threw, 

Quaking with an inborn fear 
Lest a lurking foe pursue 

From amid the thickets near. 

Einging 'bove thy torrent's roar, 

Waking far thy mountain world, 
From thy ramparts, grim and hoar. 

Many a war-note has been hurl'd ; . 
And the scene of wild strife o'er. 

Here the smoke of friendship curl'd. 

Long since lost are those deeds wrought 

By the dusky, forest son ; 
And the joj-s his camp-fire brought 

When the day's wild sport was done ; 
Happy hunting-grounds he's sought 

Far bejond the setting sun ! 

Where the panther sought his prey 

Peaceful cattle safety find ; 
And the deer's unknown to-day. 

Save the name he left behind ;* 
As of old the sunsets play 

On thy clifts with shadows lined. 

Sounds no more thy thunders, strange, 

That awoke the valle3^s 'round ;| 
Mid the years' unceasing change 

Ti'anquil silence thoiL hast found ; 
And thy one-time wildwood range 

Is to-day a pleasure-ground. 

Rivers change from ancient day, 
Founts that once were hid are seen ; 

But of thee, Pawtuckawa}^, 

With th}' loft3% constant mien, • 

• Lives thy rugged form for aye. 

Clothed in pine-firs' deathless green ! 

Monumental of the past, 

Standest thou on rock-ribbed throne, 

* Pawtuckaway is an Indian name meaning "great deer place." 

t A few years since strange sounds issued from this mountain, and they became 
so violent that an eruption was feared. But they are no longer heard. 



HORACE EATON WALKER. 699 

With thy sheen of grandeur cast 

O'er unnumbered ages flown ; 
And majestic wilt outhist 

Time and space to man unknown ! 



H. E. Walker was born in Clinrlestowu, Aupr- 9, lS.r3. Since that time he has re- 
t^ided in Brooklyn, N. Y., and Claicmout, the latter place having become his per- 
manent residence. 



THE SEAMSTRESS. 

Oh, ye that love the honest poor, 

And feel it in 30ur hearts 
To aid these pure, deserving ones 

AVliere every hope departs, 
Oh, trace with me the rickety stair, 

The coarse, uneven way, 
And I will point you, in despair, 

A woman worn and graj'. 

The hour is late, and lamps are out, 

And all the world is still, 
Save music from the banquet hall, 

Where goblets clash and fill. 
The distant thud, thud, thud. 

Of watchman on his beat. 
Breaks on the heart like tales of blood 

The wild, wild winds repeat. 

We push the door that has no lock, 

No bronzed and yielding knob, 
And there beside a broken stand. 

With mingled sigh and sob, 
A careworn mother sits and sews. 

While near in scanty cot 
A little nursling wild-flower blows, 

By all the world forgot ! 

A half-burned candle on the stand 

Makes twilight of the gloom ; 
But oh, m}- friend of countless wealth, 

You cannot know her doom ! 
You cannot, cannot feel as she. 

Your life has been of ease, 
Y''our freighted ships are on the sea 

Before a buoyant breeze. 



700 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

Oh, lay aside 3'our loaded bags, 

Your comfort, ease and wealth, 
While hopes together, side by side, 

Have gone with ros}^ health. 
And sit from morn to latest e'en, 

No comforts of the rich. 
Not one bright hour in all the scene. 

And stitch, stitch, stitch. 



Miss Shoals resides In Goshen, the place of her nativity. 



APPLE BLOSSOMS. 

Down in the orchard to-night I stray. 

With June's young glor}- around me spread ; 
Her emerald carpets beneath m}' feet, 
While above, the apple blossoms sweet 
Fall softly around ray head. 

Oh beautiful June, thou art come again, 
With echo of bird-song sweet and clear. 

With perfumed blossoms and sparkling dew ; 

A pictured melody, old 3'et new, 
My heart holds ever dear. 

Oh, fair is the earlj^ summer time ! 

In the rosy bloom of her loveliness ; 
Sweeter than spring, so pale and cold ; 
Dearer than when the year grows old, 

And youth and bloom are less. 

And the snowy blossoms come drifting down, 
Apple and cheriy, peach and pear ; 

And find amid the grass a place 

To hide their loveliness and grace 
That made the orchard fair. 

But b}^ and by, in the autumn time. 

When flowers have faded and birds are mute, 
After the summer winds and rain, 
Though the flowers cannot return again, 
There will come the golden fruit. 

And I trust that unto our human hearts, 

There will sometime come an autumn da}', 
When our lives some golden fruit shall bear ; 



SAB AH ELIZABETH LANE. 701 

And jet, 'tis sad that first the fair, 
Sweet flowers must pass away. 

But, ah ! it is not every flower 

Fulfils the promise of its bloom, — 
The cruel winds and storm may beat, 
The blossom fall ere 'tis complete, 

And then no fruit can come ! 

Oh ! thou who fashioned human hearts. 

And formed the flow'ret's dainty leaf, 
Grant that from out our earh* bloom, 
L fe's good and perfect fruit shall come, 

Unmarred by storms or grief. 



DREAMING MID THE CLOVER. 

Idle fancies come to me. Saddening fancies come to me, 

Dreaming mid the clover : Dreaming mid the clover ; 

While the busy humble bee While I think of one most dear 

Roams the wide field over. Their red blooms wave over. 

Gathering sweets from morn till Down beneath the emerald 

night, leaves. 

Busy Httle miser, 'Neath the violets' azure. 

While the butterfly glides by — While the ring-dove chants her 

Tell me which the wiser? praise, 

TT i. . X 111 the softest measure. 

Happy fancies come to me, 

Dreaming raid the clover : Ah ! these fancies I must leave. 

Happiness that will be mine Dreaming mid the clover, 

Ere their bloom is over. 1 must rise and wander far. 

Pleasant faces, merrj' smiles. Ere the day be over. 

Gentle words low spoken, — I must work and I must wait, 

These shall keep hearts free AVhile the sun is o'er me, 

from guile, With a heart for any fate 

Healing hearts once broken. That may be before me. 



Miss Lane was born in Lowell, Mass., April 20, 1856. When ehe was two vears 
of age her parents removed to Swanzey. Tlieir home is called "Elradale," from the 
large elm-trees near the bouse. She is a successful school teacher. 



A WISH. 

What shall I wish for thee, m}- dearest friend ? 
That cloudless skies shall ever o'er thee bend ? 



702 POETS OF NEW HA3IP8HIBE. 



That Fame shall give to thee a glittering crown, 
And Fortune at thy feet cast treasures down ? 

Nay, dear ! Life's sweetest floWers would droop and die, 
Did not dark clouds sometimes o'erspread the sky. 
Fame, though most fair, would give thy heart no rest, 
And Fortune proves capi'icious at the best. 

But I would wish for thee a life well spent, 
A life of love and trust and sweet content. 
Whose daj's, as they go b^', shall e'er abound 
In deeds of kindness to the world around. 

And I would wish, whatever life may bring 
To thee of sorrow or of suffering, 
That on this thought thy heart might ever rest : 
"It is thy Father's will ; He knoweth best." 

So shall thy heart be filled with J03' and peace ; 

And when at last ihy labors here shall cease, 

Thy conflicts o'er, tliy final victor}' won, 

Then thou shalt hear thy Master's words, "Well done?" 



UNDER THE ELMS. 

Under the elms, in a low-swinging hammock, 

Through the long hours I lazil}^ lie. 
Dreamily list'ning to summer's sweet music. 

Watching the white clouds float through the blue sky. 

Over my head are the wide-spreading branches, 

Through the green leaves falls the sunlight like gold ; 

Bright little buttercups nod to me gail}-. 

Sweet clover-blossoms hide treasures untold. 

From the clear river a faint, drowsy murmur 

Comes to m}' ears through the warm, fragrant air ; 

Silver-voiced birds flutter gaily about me. 
Singing, "Was ever a summer so fair !" 

Wrens chatter merrily one to another, 

Bobolinks pour forth their notes loud and clear. 

While, from the woodland, the voice of the cuckoo 
Plaintively' warns us that showers are near. 

Gold-breasted orioles o'er me fly swiftly 

To their snug homes hanging low from the tree, 

Brisk little sparrows and bluebirds and robins 
Join in the concert with hearts full of glee. 



LIDA C. TULLOCE. 703 



GOOD-BYE. 

Good-bye ! O word tlie saddest and the sweetest 
That mortal tongue e'er formed or pen e'er traced ; 

With thee how oft is deepest sorrow wakened, 
That from our hearts can never be effaced. 

"Good-b3'e," we sa}^ when weeping o'er some loved one, 
On whose dear face grim Death has set his seal, 

Whose lips no more return our fond caresses ; 
Ah, then, sad word, th^' bitterness we feel. 

"Good-bj-e," we say when we are sadh' parting 
From some dear friend we ne'er may meet again — 

Some one whose life-path seems from ours diverging, 
The while our hearts are filled with keenest pain. 

And must we sa}- good-bj-e, dear friend, forever? 

Must this word sadden both our lives alway ? 
Our Father knows ; to Him we'll trust the future ; 

Perhaps sometime may come a brighter day. 

In that blest world that's "just beyond the river," 
There, where the tears are wiped from everv ej'e. 

Where neither sorrow, sin nor death shall enter, 
We never more shall sadlj' say "Good-bye." 



Miss Tullock, formerly of Portsmouth, resides in Washington, D. C. 



FORGIVE THE DEAD. 

Let no harsh thoughts of what has been 

Remain within thj^ breast, 
When bending o'er the coffined form 

Of one who is at rest. 

What though an enemy lies there ! 

Thou canst forgive all now ; 
For God has set the awful seal 

Of death upon that brow. 

What though those lips spake angry words ? 

Those hands were raised in strife? 
Thou, too, wilt need such deeds forgiven, 

When thou hast done with life. 



704 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Then bring sweet flowers, the lily fair, 
The violet and the rose, 

To place within the hand's pale clasp, 
That never will unclose. 

And when the form is laid to rest 
'Neath earth's green, peaceful sod, 

Saj^, "I forgive !" and go thy way, 
Leaving all else with God. 



LILACS. 

'Tis strange, indeed, how slight a thing 
Will oftimes to the niem'ry bring 

Scenes of the vanished past ; 
And in the mind we live once more 
The pleasures of those days of yore, 

"Too beautiul to last." 

The fragrance of an early rose. 
The tender tints fair twilight shows. 

Old ocean's thunderous swell. 
Perchance the burden of a song. 
Bearing the hearer's heart along, 

May cast the witching spell. 

'Tis thus, when in the early spring, 
Mid growing grass and birds that sing, 

The lilac blooms anew ; 
Its subtle perfume steeps my soul, 
And from mj past the curtains roll, 

Presenting to my view 

The old, old home, where by the wall 
The lilac bushes, green and tall, 

Nodded their purple plumes ; 
Where I, a happ}', jo3'ous child. 
With brothers, sisters, sporting wild, 

Gathered the scented blooms. 

I see again my mother's face. 
So full of holy love and grace. 

Gaze on our happy pla}^ 
And smile, as we the petals string. 
And round our necks the garlands fling, 

That wither soon away. 



KATE J. KIMBALL. 705 

Oh, Lilacs ! common you may be, 
But alwa^^s beautiful to me ! 

For do you not recall 
Those halcjon daj's of early youth, 
When life seemed naught but hope and truth, 

And love illumined all? 



Miss Kimball's home has been in Bath. In 1882 she went to South Carolina. 



HYMN. 

'Because he hath set his love upon me, therefore will I deliver him."— Pealm xci : 14. 

Jesus, this sinful heart of mine 

Is prone to set its love 
Upon the things of time and sense 

And not on things above. 

On thee, on thee, O Saviour Christ ! 

Could I but fix my eye. 
For a high purpose for my life 

I should no longer sigh. 

Oh, glimpses of th}' loveliness 

In pit}' give to me, 
So that my restless heart be filled 

With naught but thoughts of thee. 

And then shall I delivered be 

From each besetting sin. 
And holy peace and sweet content 

Shall reign my breast within. 

And then, wherever I may go, 

Whatever I ma}- be. 
My eveiy thought and word and deed 

Shall be as unto thee. 

Jesus, I crave this blessedness, 

Not for my sake alone, 
But that in me, thy humble child, 

Thy sacred will be done. 



WHERE JESUS LEADS. 

Saviour, where'er thou leadest me 
Most cheerfully I go. 



706 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 



Over the mountains high and steep, 
Or through sweet valleys low. 

And either through the wilderness, 

Or in the city's mart, 
With jo}' and peace I go with Him 

Who holds m}^ hand and heart. 

Whether in life's fierce battle-strife, 

Or safe in meadows fair, 
Whether the sea be rough or calm, 

I am without a care. 

And whether in my Father's house. 

Or far away from home, 
My Saviour guides and leads and keeps, 

Wherever I ma}' roam. 

AVith thee I live in peace with them 

Who love or who hate me, 
And I'm content, when all forsake, 

To be alone with thee. 

Jesus, while thus thou leadest me, 

I cannot go astray. 
Thou safely keepest me who art 

The Life and Truth and Way. 



TO THE WHITE VIOLET. 

Oh little flower that from the rich, moist earth 
Of lonesome wooded roadsides comest forth 
In the warm sunshine of the gentle May, 
And sheddest sweetest fragrance on my way, — 
I dearly love the tender winsome grace 
That rests upon thy tiny modest face ; 
Methinks the purple of thy pencillings 
Is softer than the royal d3'e of kings. 
Oh, might my heart be pure as thou art white, 
And might my faith be clear as thou art bright. 
And" might sweet charity my robes perfume 
As does soft fragrance rest in all thy bloom, 
(Even if it should be that my life's lot 
Were cast in some such shady, lonely spot) 
I would not ask that purple limes of strife 
Should be removed from out my earthly life. 



IDA G. ADAMS— WILLIAM HALE. 707 



I<l:t <4. Adams was born in North Weare, Oct. 2, 1850. She is a sister ol' .James M. 
Adams, whose poems are found elsewhere in this volume. 

ENID. 

Have you seen our brown-e^ved darling, 
With her curls of burnished gold ? 

On this earth there ne'er existed 
Such a cunning two-year old. 

Perfect red lips scarce concealing 

Such a tin}' row of pearls 
As a monarch well might envy 

Her, our queen of baby girls. 

Merry little madcap Enid ! 

First a smile and then a frown 
Flits across those chubb}' features, 

And into the eyes so brown. 

Laughing little winsome Enid ! 

May those little flying feet, 
As the}' journc}- o'er life's pathwa}', 

Ne'er its dark, rough places meet. 

Other love may turn to ashes ; 

Older hearts ma}' soon grow cold ; 
But our tenderest, best atfection 

P^ver will thy life enfold. 

Closer still, my bonny baby. 

Let those little arms entwine 
Round me, and to thee most truly 

Pledge I, dear, this heart of mine. 



SMiUiam l^ale. 

Wm. Hale was born in Dover, Jan. 18, ISM. He was graduated at Urown I'ni- 
versity, rrovideuce, R. I., in 1880. 



LIFE'S SCULPTOR. 

How can I hope with these poor hands, I cry, 
To cut the crystal alabaster, how hope 
With these thin trembling palms, with arm so faint, 
To chisel from the massive block of life 



708 POETS OF NEW HAMP8EIBE. 

A figure worth the while— much more a saint, 
One worthy to be placed within its niche 
Prepared, amid the countless groups from life 
In Time's vast corridor? "Patience, dear sculptor," 
A low voice saith, "by long, long years is wrought 
The beauty infinite of the white soul's thought. 
With our strong thoughtful stroke each day the small 
Chips fall, to leave, when thou hast won thy rest. 
When golden years have brought thee to thy goal, 
Instead of shapeless stone, a beauteous whole." 



TO MY RIVER, THE PISCATAQUA. 

I see thee now my beautiful river, 
I see thee now O wood-loved river, 

A-shining under the setting sun ! 
I see thy soft bank's golden brown 
Where the sun-beams love to settle down 

And linger one by one. 

And the song thou singest is love untold, 
And the smile thou givest is bright as gold ; 

Thou fiUest ni}^ grateful soul with peace. 
And the short-lived sweets of a honeyed youth 
Are forgot in the dream of a purer truth, — 

A dream that ne'er shall cease. 

And my life shall nobler and purer be 

That its youth and dreams were passed by thee. 

Bathed bright and pure in thy sunlit tide. 
Those dear lost days ! the}^ seem but now 
A beautiful promise, a holy vow, 

As o'er the waves I glide. 

On the breast of Life's restless river. 
Painting a fair land washed by a river 

Where soon, forever m}- soul shall rest— - 
After a little waking and sleeping, 
After a little smiling and weeping — 

With those I love the best. 



(t\)wcit% lEtibjartr Sargent. 

C. E. Sargent was born in Pittsflekl, November 8, 1856. Most of his early life 
was spent on a small farm In his native town. He was thrown upon his own re- 
sources by the death of his father in 1872, when the care of the farm was left t<> 
him and his younger brother. He abandoned the idea of a liberal education and 
was employed in a shoe factory in the intervals of farm work. In the fall of 1874 



CHABLES ED WAS D SAB GENT. 709 

he took the course of instruction at tlie New York Plireuologlcal Institute. In 
1S7G-77 he was principal teacher in tlie V.oslon Truant School. He entered Hates 
College in August, 1879, ami gra(luatc(l in IfvS;!. As a student he exhlbiteil greatest 
excellence in the Natural Sciences, MetMpli} sics and Knglisli Literature and Com- 
position. During his course he took three prizes tor e\ccileni-e in (Dniposition 
and Debate. For the vear 1881-S2 he was lirsi editor of the Biit> a student. In his 
junior year he began the coniijosition of a book, entitled "()ur Home, or tlie Key to 
a Nobler Life," which he c(mii>leted in about six months while still maintaining 
his position in his class. This liouk has been honored with a letter of introduction 
from the pen of airs T>u(relia K. (iarlield. It is published by W. C. King 
A Company of Springtield, Mass. It is warmly commended by good critics, anil 
seems destined to make its author favorably known. During "his college course, 
Mr. Sargent wrote numerous poems, one of "which was published in the College 
Song book. Several years ago he composed a poem which was afterwards set to 
music and published by Prof. Ripley of Bostou, and sung at the services of 
memorial day in that city. 



IN UNITS' PLACE. 

I know not from what beginning 

My spirit has been evolved, 
Nor tlirough what vast mutations 

In the problems God has solved. 
Yet I feel I'm not a cipher 

At the left of all that's wrought, 
Though I cannot move great nations 

With the iron hand of thought. 

Though raj- deeds be few and lowly, 

And of small account my work, 
Hidden germs of might}' meaning 

In each little deed may lurk. 
And I know I am a factor 

In the work that God has done, 
Though I'm but a star that twinkles 

Faint beside a rising sun. 

Human deeds we cannot measure. 

Those we count so grand and bold 
Ma3' be sounding brass in heaven, 

While the little ones are gold. 
If I cannot stand in millions' 

Nor the thousands' column grace, 
Cheerfull}' in sweet submission 

I win stand in units' place. 



BUILDING CASTLES IN THE AIR. 

How oft in childhood's sunny hours. 
While lingering 'neath its ros}- bowers, 
We gaze upon life's sun so bright 
And wish him at meridian height ! 



710 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

How gay the thoughts of future seem 
In that delicious morning dream ! 
How man}'' a fairj^ castle there 
Is built in unsubstantial air ! 

In infanc3''s bright dream of youth. 
When fancy wears the garb of truth, 
We deem the highest type of joy 
The freedom of the reckless bo}'. 
But when we reach the long-sought prize 
Behold ! it fades before our eyes, 
And all its promised pleasures rare 
Quick vanish in the empty air. 

On manhood's far-off mountain brow 
We gaze upon our castle now ; 
Far-gleaming from its tow'ring height, 
Behold Ambition's beck'ning light. 
The path to wealth that must be ours 
Lies over down}- beds of flowers ; 
We heed nor crag, nor storm, nor sleet, 
But onward press with flying feet. 

Proud fame unfurls his flaming scroll 
And bids us there our names enroll ; 
We hear, with quickened veins of fire. 
The utt'rance of the statesman's ire. 
We listen, with enraptured frame. 
To hear the poet's deathless name ; 
But when we wake and gaze around 
'Tis midnight, and we hear no sound. 

'Tis but delirium's fitful gleam 

That tells us 'twas an empty dream ; 

We never reach our castle fiiir, 

To walk its crystal floors of air. 

No more we strive with striving men, 

But turn to view life's morn again ; 

We learn, when life's dark tempests lower, 

Our castle was in childhood's hour. 



THE FRUITLESS SEARCH. 

How oft, fair Pleasure, in mj' j'outh, 
I've gazed upon thy gaudy wing, 

And lain enraptured in th}' thrall 
To hear thy siren maidens sing ; 



CHARLES EDWARD SARGENT. 711 

I've sought thee in the bower of love, 

In roses' most congenial clime, 
Wliere breathing perfume fills the air, 

And music's gentle pulses chime. 

I've sought thee in the halls of mirth, 

Amid the mazes of the waltz, 
Where midnight lamps o'er beautN* shone, 

Revealing naught of human faults ; 
I've sought thee mid the cit3''s roar, 

On that deep, surging sea of strife. 
Whose waves at great cathedrals break,^ 

And foam with crimson crests of life. 

I've chased thee through ambitition's hall, 

Where weary inmates never sleep. 
But silently, with wasted form. 

The scholar's lonelj- vigils keep. 
But something in the breast of man 

Cries silence ! In the roaring mart, 
We fly from pleasure's gilded hall 

With wear}' feet and aching heart. 

Turn back to childhood's sinless hour, 

When care to us was but a name. 
And furrows deep on mother's brow 

Were mysteries that went and came. 
Tis then on contemplation's wing 

That years and power and manhood flee, 
And, with our hearts subdued and soft. 

Leave us beside our mother's knee. 



IN THE DARK I'LL FOLLOW THEE. 

Lead me gentlj', Father, gently. 

For 'tis ^ark, I cannot see, 
And this pathway o'er the mountain 

Seemeth rough and steep to me ; 
But I know that thou art gentle, 

And will lead me free from harm. 
So I lean in sweet submission 

On thj' strong and loving arm. 

What though all's in darkness shrouded. 
And th}' face I cannot see ! 

Yet, I feel thy gentle presence. 
In the dark I'll follow thee. 



712 POETS OF NEW HAMP8HIBE. 

When my waj'ward spirit led me 

From the tender shepherd's care, 
And I fled from kind protection, 

To the mountains wild and bare, 
Then the storm with rattling thunder 

In its anger burst on me, 
And I cried with trembling terror 

"Father, I will follow thee." 

Then I sought my tender shepherd, 

Through the darkness of the storm, 
Guided by his constant calling. 

For I could not see his form. 
And that darkness now still lingers. 

And the night hangs low and dim, 
Yet I hear mj' Shepherd calling. 

In the dark I'll follow him. 



Rev. r. C. Pillsbury was born in West Mewbury, Mass., April 19, 1857. His par- 
ents removed,, wben he was very young, to Kingston. His uneventful life has thus 
far been spent mostly at his father's home and in acquiring an education. He is a 
preacher in the Methodist Episcopal Church. 



THE OLD MAN OF THE MOUNTAIN. 

Above yon threat'ning cloud 

That makes the craggy steeps look dim. 
Mid lightnings flerce and thunders loud 

That hurl their angr}^ spite at him. 
Mid summer's heat and winter's snow, 
Counting the ages as they come and go. 

Sits the king of New Hampshire hills. 

When storms upon the plain 
In fury break, he minds it ndl ; 

God sings to him in wind and rain. 
And all his hardships are forgot ; 

Unvexed by tempest he doth rest 

As one in sleejD — so still his might}' breast, 
So imperceptible its thrills. 

His throne is built so high 

The glittering hosts of light adore ; 

The bolts of heaven he doth defy ; 
Eager, his sceptre o'er and o'er 



FEED CUTTEB PILLSBURT. 713 

The sunbeams kiss ; his throne the place 
Of bright and glittering pearls, the rarest grace 
Alike of morn and paradise. 

Tis there Queen Vesper goes 

To shut the golden gates of day, 
And give the weary world repose. 

While yet the sun goes on his way, 
Glad in his might}' strength, 1 ween ; 
And he carries a robe of living green 

For nature's gayest festal guise. 



THE ECLIPSE. 

(The §un was eclipsed at its rising on the last day of the year 1880.) 

Above the faiiy towers of the deep. 
Whose snowy domes at earl}- morn appear, 
The sun hath veiled his radiant brow 
With sackcloth for the dying jear. 

Throughout the sj'stems of the universe. 
Amid the rolling of the myriad spheres, 
Doth any, like our radiant sun, 
Lament the going of the j^ears ? 

But briefly he observes the solemn deed. 
The dreaiy mantle ialls from off his face ; 
Another year is at the door, 
Him be receives with festal grace. 

O grieved heart, take heed of this, I pra\-, 
O'er all the past, forget th}- fruitless tears, 
The promise of thy future life 
Demands not sackcloth for past years. 



HAMPTON BEACH. 

The heat of da}' is over, and the eventide 
Broods, like a gentle spirit, o'er the deep 

And ever flowing ocean far and wide ; 

The tossing waves have sighed themselves to sleep, 

And now, with cadence soft and low, 

Forbear to break and gently flow. 



714 POETS OF NEW HAMP8HIBE. 



The argosies of cloud-land, moored along the west, 
Are riding leisure!}' in heaven's bay, 

Earth, sea and sky are all at rest — 
The benediction of a perfect day, 

The moon, reflected by my side. 

Sends quivering glances from the tide. 

Where sea and skj^ are wedded in a purple mist. 
The white sea' gulls glide past the Hampton reef; 

So. with a longing I cannot resist. 

My thoughts dart out and find a glad relief. 

Like white sails on the shadowy sea, 

Dear memories float back to me. 

breath of balm ! I feel thy witcher}-, thy power ; 
O towering cliff beside the summer sea, 

1 lived a long, sweet life in one short hour. 

On thy great heart reposed, at rest with thee ; 
I'll seek again thy sunset skies, 
Thj' twilight hour, thy paradise. 



Miss Partridge is a daughter of Rev. S. H. Partridge, wlio is represented in this 
olume. She was born in Lebanon. Maine. Se«t. 15. 1857. She iias wi'itten over the 



nom de plume oi "Nelsia Bird." 



DRIFTING. 



Just the same as ever, the seasons come and go, 
With summer flowers and sunshine and wiiTter's drifting snow. 
Just the same as ever, the spring-time bluebirds call ; 
And glorious leaves in autumn with radiant colors fall. 

Just the same as ever, the twinkling stars shine on ; 

The sun returns each morning to wake the coming dawn. 

Just the same as ever, the world rolls on its way. 

Nor heeds our bitter grieving for friends that might not stay. 

Just the same as ever, the sweet smiles lead a sigh. 
And ripple over chasms where hopes and treasures lie. 
Just the same as ever? No, not the same to me ; 
The sun his chariot driving draws near the crystal sea. 

No, not the same as ever, the tinted leaves float down, 
They strew my pathway nearer the hand that holds the crown. 
No, not the same as ever, — sun, moon, and stars must pale 
Before the coming splendor that hides behind the veil. 



ABBIE NELSIA PABTBIDGE. 715 



HUMAN FACES. 

Oh ! human faces, witli placid smiles 

That ripple the surface o'er. 
You tell as little of life beneath, 

As the waves that wash the shore. 

Some maiden heart with emotion thrills 

At the low sweet voice of love ; 
The world intrudes — and the face she lifts, 

Is calm as the sky above. 

Some reckless one, with sin-djed heart. 
Comes forth from the depths of shame, 

And smiles on the world, as cool and calm, 
As one with an honored name. 

An aching heart, with anguish riven, 
That has bowed in secret i)rayer. 

Comes out to the world with beaming ej-es, 
And a face serene and fair. 

The inward struggles with pride and want. 

And the sins that hidden lie 
Leave no more trace, on the outward face. 

Than last week's storm on the skj^ 

It is well the curious eyes see naught 

But the face of seeming light, 
AVhile carefully hid, 'neath tlie heart's deep lid. 

Lie covered the sins of night. 



HIDDEN WORTH. 

Under the ice, so cold and chill, 
Floweth the water, pure and still ; 
Under the snow-drifts, deep and white, 
Violets wait for spring-time light. 
Deep in the rugged mountain's core, 
Lieth the glittering golden ore ; 
Under the rough antl swelling tide, 
Beautiful gems of ocean hide. 

Little we think, under ice so chill, 
Waters are flowing, pure and still ; 
Less do we think, in mountains cold, 
Bright are the rocks with shining gold. 



716 POETS OF NEW HAMFSHIEE. 

Summer and sunshine bring to light 
Waters that sparkle pure and bright ; 
Courage and labor find the way 
Down where the gold and jewels lay. 

Under the ice of careless scorn, 
Under the snow of envy born, 
Throbbeth the hearts we cannot know,- 
Only as love shall melt the snow. 
Under our feet the waters glide, 
Mountains of wealth are at our side ; 
Ours be the joy the prize to bring. 
Others the hollow praise may sing. 



amiUiam E. ii3artlett. 

"W. A. Bartlett of Hanover, is the son of Samuel C. Bartlett, President of Dart- 
mouth College. He was born in Chicago, 111., Feb. 17, 1858. He graduated at Dart- 
mouth in 1882. 



MCESTITIA. 

Hast oft at eventide sat weary down 

To rest, heart-sick and tired of th}' life ? 

With head thrown back upon thy knitted hands 

Watched listless the last gleam of fading light? 

And as the shadows deepened, blotting out 

The glorious view of skies that lately shone 

Transcendent, with a glory not their own, 

Didst think it did portray with startling truth 

The darkening of thy landscape once so bright? 

And sighed — a heavy sigh — to think forsooth 

The world had grown for thee a darksome night? 

Cheer up faint heart, perhaps this night's for rest ; 

Thy mental gloom must wait thy mental sun. 

The spring at dark is but a muddy stream 

For eyes which dimlj^ see it in its course ; 

While pierced b}' heaven's ray it is a gem 

Which sparkles in its bed of golden sand. 

Thus, when our vision's dim with doubts and fears, 

The trifling objects of our nearer view 

Assume strange shapes like ships which sail through fog, 

And glide like phantoms seemingly in air. 

Throw off thy melanchol}' — have it gone. 

And let thy fettered spirit spread its wings. 

Then swell the orchestral music of the soul 



WILLIAM A. BABTLETT. 7] 7 

In one grand sj'mphony almost divine, 

Which rising, swelling, bursts so wondrous sweet 

That — sad heart, dost thy morn begin to glow ? 



CEDIPUS. 

CEdipus, thou son of Laius, 
When exposed on Mount Cithferon 
With thy feet all pierced and bleeding, 
In thine infancy so helpless ; 
Did no vision of the future, 
Did no oracle prophetic 
Tell thee that thy life was fated 
To be one continued crime? 

CEdipus, thou son of Laius, 
If the disembodied spirit 
Ever has the recollection 
Of the deeds done in the bodj' — 
Can it be thou'rt in Elj'sium ; 
Can there be one consolation 
In the haunting, baleful memory 
That thou art a patricide ? 

CEdipus, thou son of Laius, 
Did an obolus admit thee 
To Tartarean realms of sorrow? 
Would the boatman take thee over 
Laden with a sin so fearful — 
Laden with the curse of Nature, 
In that wicked, shameful union 
When Jocasta was thy bride ? 

Wretched one, is Stygian darkness 
Black enough that it can cover 
Visions that are most appalling, — 
Of a hanging struggling mother 
With her features so distorted, 
Wlio in bitter self-abasement, 
Who in sorrow overwhelming 
Thus became a suicide ? 

Can it be Lethean waters 

Drown those wild cries so heart-rending 

Of tliv faithful, loving sister 

Whom they bore, despairing, shrieking, 



718 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 



To a living inhumation ; 
To a death too agonizing 
In its dismal, hopeless horror 
For the fair Antigone. 

Qildipus, pray thou most humbly 
For complete annihilation, 
Or for sleep profound, eternal. 

And a sleep from dreams set free. 
Lest these unrelenting phantoms, 
Lest these endless mad'ning visions 
Haunt thy shades like horrid spirits 

Frenzied in their vengeful glee. 
Giving neither sleep nor madness ; 
Giving Memory no oblivion 
To remove the recollection 

Through a dread eternity. 



Carrie Wi\)\Xz (©ggootr. 

Mrs. Osgood, a daughter of Bev. Lymau White, was born in Easton, Mass., Mav 
6, 1858. Her childhood was spent in the pleasant hill-town of Aoworth. In the fall 
of 1872, her family having removed to Claremont, she entered the Stevens High 
.School, followed its course of stud}' for five years, and graduated with honors. 
.Sliortly after this, her first poetical attempts appeared in local papers, and further 
rtforte were agreeably recognized by the Youth's Companion, to which she ii» now 
an occasional contributor. 



THE BACHELOR'S PEOPOSAL. 

Bachelor Button stood by the wall, 

Under an apple-tree shad}" ; 
He nodded across the garden bed 

To pretty Miss Ragged Ladj'. 

"Fair lady," said he, "for manj- a daj"" 
Pve studied your numerous graces 

With so much zeal that I've come to feel 
That yours is the sweetest of faces ! 

"Some nimble fingers I greatl}' need 
To keep m}' buttons in order, 

And you need some one to buy a dress 
With a little less tattered border. 

"So now if 3'ou'll come and live with me, 
And sew on mj' buttons neatly. 

From bonnet to slijjper I'll dress 3-ou out 
Most elegantlj' and completely !" 



CARRIE WHITE OSGOOD. 719 



Said Ragged Lad}-, '"Tis fine to hear 

You talk about prettj' faces ! 
A judge of beauty you are indeed 

Who can't tell rags from laces ! 

"My delicate flounces are deftly made, 
And I don't care to renew them, 

But if you wish your buttons sewed on. 
Just find some other to do them !" 

Years have passed since this offer was made 

Under the apple-tree shady, 
But he is Bachelor Button still, 

And she is a Ragged Lady ! 



THROWING KISSES. 

Three gold buttons on each small shoe, 
Crimson stockings and apron blue, 
Are these the daintiest part of you ? 

Saxon Bertha, with eyes that look 
Like blue fringed gentians in their nook 
Under the trees by the pasture brook. 

Saxon Bertha, so white and pink, 
Surely some butterfly might think, 
"Here is honey for me to drink !" 

Bertha "bright," at the window pane. 
Through the sunshine and through the rain 
Kisses you throw again and again. 

All are equal, in your belief. 

Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief, 

Doctor, lawyer or Indian chief." 

Shouting school-boy, roguish and rude. 
Fair little maiden in scarlet hood, 
Ragged workman, sawing the wood. 

Shower your kisses ! Happy are a'ou ! 
Happier far than if you knew 
Good from evil and false from true. 

Scatter with loving finger-tips 

These blossoms of your innocent lips, 

Till into each heart some sweetness slips. 



720 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

EVENTIDE. 

"I will both lay me clown in peace, and sleep." 

Secure I rest, with nought to fear, 
For in the stillness I can hear 
The foot-falls of thine angels near, 
As through the night they swiftly press 
To guard the couch which thou dost bless. 
In vain the darkness strives to vail 
Their shining faces, shadows quail 
Before the radiance of their eyes 
And Hespers in the gloom arise. 

I catch the music of their tone 
Like voice of trumpets softly blown. 
Or like the laughing notes that trip 
So lightly from the fountain's lip. 
Anon the cadence falls and swells 
Like echoed chime of distant bells ; 
Ko grief can pass, nor evil things, 
Within the circle of their wings. 

Though never more the golden tide 
Of morning, up my chamber-side 
Creeping with gentle flow, should break 
Its ripples at my lids, and make 
My stranded senses buoyant rise 
Ready for day's activities, 
I am content, and trust to be 
In happier waking still with thee. 
For thou, O Lord, my soul dost keep 
Who givest thy beloved sleep. 



A WAIF. 

Among my flowers, one winter morn 
When field and wood were hoary, 

Smiling to greet the tardy dawn, 
I found a morning-glory. 

Behind an amaranth's crimson flame 
The modest vine had hidden, 

Quietly climbing to the light 
And blossoming unbidden. 

Like some dear, unexpected friend 
I welcomed the bright stranger, 



CABBIE WHITE OSGOOD. 721 

Who, leaning toward the frost}" pane 
Without a dream of danger, 

Strove 'gainst its chill to lay her face 

And tell her winsome stor\' 
Of bygone summer's rose-sweet da3-s, 

Of purple hill-tops' glory, 

Of brooks that lull the languid ferns, 

Of fields with fire-flies spangled, 
Of bobolink's unrulj' tune 

Among the sunbeams tangled. 

But not of June alone she told, 

Seeking some further token, 
This word at her pure lips I found 

In softest odors spoken. 

That oft the drearest hour ma}- bring 

Some bright, unlooked-for blessing ; 
That toward the iciest heart some love 

May lean with touch caressing. 

No life so frost-bound, so forlorn, 

But has one morning-glory 
To blossom in its winter day. 

When field and wood are hoary. 



TRIFLING. 

Dora on a moss-bank sits, 

Where all day the sunbeams dally. 
Where the speckled sparrow flits. 

And a brooklet musicall}- 
Slips from shadow into shadow. 

Between willows bending over. 

Among purple beds of clover 
And red lilies of the meadow. 

Happ3' Dora sits and sings 

Odd sweet notes the birds have taught her. 
To the naiad ferns that fling 

Their green tresses on the water. 
Leaning down to clasp their doubles. 

That look up with smiling faces 

From their sunlit, crystal places 
Underneath the sliding bubbles. 



722 POETS OF NEW HAMP8HIBE. 

And the brooklet makes replj' 
With a soft, Italian flowing 

Of sweet sounds, now clear, now shy, 
All its dimples to her showing ; 

At her bare, pink feet it lingers. 
Laughs aloud with merry tinkles, 
Glances up with roguish twinkles, 

Taps the bank with gleesome fingers. 



Samuel W. Foss was born in Candia, June 19, 1858. He fitted for College at Porte- 
moutli High School and at Tilton Conlcreuce Seminary. He graduate<l at Brown 
University in 1882, on which occasion he was class poet. His home is in Portsmouth. 



THE PERFECT SONG. 

Amid the traffic of the throng 
Methought I heard the perfect song, 
I listened to the sweet refrain 
Without a discord in the strain. 

I listened and it came again 
As if an angel sang to men, 
As if from twilight deeps had rung 
The accents of a seraph tongue. 

By outward sense I could not hear. 
But on the listening spirit ear 
It fell as soft as early snow 
Falls on the autumn fields below. 

The glad strain ceased — I hastened then 
To sing the song to careless men ; 
Alas ! I found my words were dead, 
The rapture of the song had fled. 



THE BROOK AND THE PINE. 

The spirit that sings in the laughing brook 
And has sung since the world began 
Is gay as the light of a maiden's look 
And glad — as the heart of man. 

The spirit that sighs in the moaning pine 
And has sighed since the world began 
Is gloomy as Night when the stars do not shine 
^nd sad — as the heart of man. 



ANNE PABMELEE. 723 



I lay 'neath the pine on the brink of the brook, 
And their songs mingled o'er me in air, 
One glad as the tones from an oread's nook, 
One heav3' "nith sobs of despair. 

The sad and the glad mingled into one strain, 
But made no dissonant strife ; 
As varying tones of pleasure and pain 
Mingle into the music of life. 

And I said, "Lo, the song of the heart of man, 
The song of gloom and of glee. 
The song that has been since the world began. 
The sons; that ever shall be." 



Ennc l^armelcc. 

Anne Parmelee is a native of Brooklyn, N. Y., whore her parents, Joseph W., and 
Krauces A. Parmelee, resideil f(ir many years. She was born June 1, 1860, and has 
been carefully reared and etlmatrd, first at the Packer Institute, and afterward at 
Miss Whitcomb's Sendnary <in the Heights in that City. She lias written some 
pleasant pieces in prose and verse, and from the latter we have selected witli others 
for this volume her Conmu iicement Kxercise as a member of the Art Class in Miss 
Whitcomb'8 school. Her home is in Newport. 



SUNSET. 

The sun sinks slowly- to its rest. 

While on the crest 
Of yonder hill the firs point toward the radiant sky. 
Through golden glory in the west, 

To quiet nest, 
The birds, fatigued with the long, beauteous day, now tly. 

See ! every eye-entrancing shade. 

Now glow, then fade — 
From richest crimson, to the faintest, loveliest rose. 
Colors like these, on canvas laid, 

Are oft displayed. 
But not in hues divine as nature glows. 

We stay and gaze until the night, 

With shadowy light, 
Laj's its cool spell o'er all the dewy vale and hill ; 
The lovely rose tints, put to flight, 

Fade from our sight. 
Till all the scene is calm and mvstical and still. 



724 POETS OF NEW HA3IPSHIBE. 

HAMMOCK REVERIE. 

Swinging in the hammock 

'Neath the apple trees, 
Hearing happy birds above 

Sing sweet melodies, 
Watching soft white clouds that pass 

O'er the summer sk}', — 
Oh the sweet, sweet nothingness, 

'Twixt heaven and earth to lie, 
And ponder, oh ! so lazil}-. 

While swinging through the air, 
O'er all the tender mj'stery 

Of heaven and earth so fair. 



SONNET TO LAKE SUNAPEE. 

Fair Sunapee ! whose silver sheen doth lie 

Beneath the tender radiance of the moon ; 

In the still night that glides away so soon, 

So fleetly, that it causes one to sigh, 

To know such beauty exquisite must die 

In stillness, broken only b}' the loon 

That on thy shores doth cry in doleful tune, 

Or swiftly o'er thy glittering waters fly ; 

We float among the stars deep mirrored here, 

With moonlight's mystic splendor all around. 

While fleeting echoes from the darkling shore 

Return the merry laugh and plash of oar ; 

And through the shadows of the wood profound 

The disk of the fair evening star seems near. 



RAPHAEL AND MICHAEL ANGELO. 

As when a star in heaven, just ceased to be. 
Gone, and its exit veiled in m^^stery. 
Still sends to earth a steady, beaming light 
That never falters, never grows less bright ; 

So through the mighty centuries since their birth 
The radiance of their genius comes to earth, 
Filling the hearts and souls of those who gaze 
Upon their works divine, with mute amaze. 

In Raphael Sanzio, we see combined 

All beauteous qualities of heart and mind ; 



ANNE PABMELEE. 725 



In spiritual forms excelled by none, 
In grandeur, b}' great Angelo alone. 

Madonna di San Sisto ! — what could be 
More lovely, purely beautiful than she? 
With tender, steadfast eyes, that seem to see 
Far toward the vast unsolved eternity. 

And then, that grand transfiguration scene, 
In which Christ's followers, with humble mien, 
Their faces bow'd before the glorious One, 
The radiance of whose brow outshone the sun. 

In scenes of beauty, Raphael found delight. 
The other in portraying strength and might ; 
Raphael the milder, best loved of the two. 
But Angelo, firm, rugged, strong and true. 

'Tis said among the seven famed hills of Rome 
Another hill he raised, — Saint Peter's dome, 
Which still in the Eternal City stands, 
A witness to the power of mortal hands. 

Beneath his stern imperious mien there glowed 
A depth of power and fire that ceaseless flowed, 
And which into his wondrous works he threw 
With skill that forces our astonished view. 

There, in the chapel of the Medicis, 
Four grandly solemn figures we may see, — 
INIorning and Evening, also Da}' and Night, 
Colossal works wrought by this man of might. 

The Sistine chapel, with its vaulted roof. 
Is of his genius yet another proof. 
Illumined b}- soft tints of beauty rare. 
Shadowed bj' tones of terror and despair. 

And we may thank that wise all-seeing Power, 
Who, blessing us though creatures of an hour. 
Saw fit his servants man}- years ago, 
With true enduring talent to endow ; 

That through them and their priceless works of art 
We might grow nobler and more pure of heart. 
Immortal genius to these men was given, 
To draw our aspirations nearer heaven. 



726 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

lEmma (Kf)atrtiDurtte S^Iciot). 

Mrs. Wood is a native of South Benviclj, Maine, born Jam. 5, 1859. She has spent 
most of her life thus far in Flushing, Long Island. She completed a three years' 
course of study at Abbott Academy, Andover, Mass. In I88I she became the wife 
of Rev. Samuel G. Wood. They came to New Ipswich where they still reside. 



THE DAISY. 

All flowers were fair, and yet a meadow-sprite 

Approached her queen on a mid-summer night. 

Her court she held beneath a moss}^ stone 

All hollowed out by fairy art alone. 

'Twas roofed with gems from earth-elves' hoarded store, 

And velvet lichens carpeted the floor. 

The throne a single pearl, whose lustrous white 

Flashed, trembled, glimmered in the changing light. 

Thither the sprite with joyful footsteps came 

To answer at the calling of her name. 

''And what wouldst thou, O sprite of yonder mead? 

What is thy wish ? What is thy greatest need ?" 

Then humbly bowing: "Dearest queen, 'tis thine 

To grant this one request to me and mine. 

The flow'rets which thy majesty hast sent 

Upon this earth, to add to our content, 

Are beautiful, and much we prize the thought 

That gave them us, unasked for and unsought. 

And yet this thing I ask ; that there may be 

One more, to represent chaste modesty. 

Its robe to be of fairest, purest white ; 

Its heart of gold ; its presence as the light." 

It shall be thine. Rejoicing go thy way. 

And thou shalt call its name the E\x of Day." 

Lo ! on the morrow, midst the clover sweet 

A flower first looked to heaven, new-made, complete. 

Arrayed in white, its heart of beaten gold, 

E'en as her wish the meadow-sprite had told. 

Then songs of joy rose in the fragrant air. 

Songs of the Eye of Day, so fresh and fair. 

Those days are past, and still the sons of men 

Proclaim the Daisy's praise as sprites did then. 



"GOOD-BY, PAPA." 

That little maid ? Well, yes ; 3'ou see 
She is the light of life to me ; 
Her mother's very image, sir, 



LOTTA BLANCHE SMITH. 727 

So natural-like I cling to her. 

A little one, I know — not strong ; 

But still I pray God spare her long. 

When I leave home at earl}- day, 
I hear her voice far on the way 
Calling, "Good-by ! My love, you know, 
'Is yours, Papa, where'er you go." 
And do you wonder, sir, that I 
Work better for my child's good-by ? 

All? Yes. M}^ wife and little son 
Are dead. I have no other one 
On earth, but that dear child of eight 
You saw beside my cottage gate. 
God grant the day afar may be 
That brings her last good-by to me. 



Hotta 13lattc|)c Smiti^. 

Lotta B. Smith was born in Kecne, April 20, 1859. In 1860 her parents removcil 
to Springflelfl, Vt. When seven years of age she met witli a painful accident, im- 
pairing the spine and rendering ner a helpless invalid. 



MY LOVE. 

Sad -(Eolian music by summer winds sung, 
Thro' the green-curtained pine-boughs, with crisp needles hung, 
That breathe their low strains from the azure h^d skies, 
Are not sadder to me than my love's murmured sighs. 

The sun that at daybreak, with gold-glinted rays, 
Bursts forth from the cloudlets of feathery haze, 
And lights with his glory this world full of guile 
Is not brighter to me than my love's sunn}' smile. 

The rain-drops refresh the pale violet's blue, 
And with glistening gems their sweet faces bestrew 
In Aurora's bright dawn, 3'et those crystal drops clear 
Do not glisten for me, like my love's pearl}- tear. 

The crimson that lurks in the heart of the rose. 
Or the flame tints of twilight the western sk}' glows, 
In the lingering sunset, with rudd^'-warm flush, 
Can ne'er warm my heart, like m}- love's rosy blush. 



728 POETS OF NEW HAMFSHIBE. 

Charles W. Coit was bom in Concord, January 13, 1861. He was fitted for col- 
lege at St. Paul's School in his native city, and in 1883 was graduated at Triuit>- 
College, upon which occasion he was chosen class poet. In the autumn of that 
year he entered the General Theological Seminary in New York. At the early age 
ofi seven vears he visited parts of Scotland, England, France and Belgium. He 
has been author of several poems which have been published in the Granite Monthly 
and other periodicals. 



TAY BRIDGE. 

The morning bright bathed with its light 

The verdant banks of Tay ; 
The twittering swallows skimmed along 

The waters, in their play ; 
The while, a Scottish wanderer I 

To Tay port bent my way. 

I saw the bridge, as from the ridge 

I looked the waters o'er ; 
A mighty work it seemed to me, 

That stretched from shore to shore ; 
But in the midst there was a gap 

That puzzled me full sore. 

And, as I stood and pondered thus, 

An ancient Scot drew near, 
And him I asked to solve my doubts ; 

But seemed he not to hear ; 
For a little space he hid his face, 

Then wiped away a tear. 

"Didst ask," quoth he, "guid sir, the cause 

The brigg is trod nae mair? 
Aweel, it is a direfu' tale, 

That pierces me right sair ; 
For 'twas on that night, in awfu' plight, 

My Geordie perished there ! 

"Puir laddie ! He did little ken 

Wha' evil wad betide ! 
For he was comin' hame that day, — 

He and his winsome bride. 
But a cruel wraith o'ertook them baith ; 

Thegither there they died. 

"That lee-lang day the storm held sway ; 
The rain and sleet fell fast ; 



CHARLES WHEELEB COIT. 729 



The wind, it blawecl a hurricane ; 

On shore the waves were cast ; 
And ever o'er our heads, the clouds 

Were sailing swiftlj- past. 

"The moon, at night, shone cauld and bright 

On yon grc}-, massive pile ; 
The eager waters foamed beneath, 

Wi' grim and ghastly smile ; 
And the Edinboro' train rolled on 

Its slaw-decreasing mile. 

"1 watched it, as it crept alang ; 

I see'd its lanterns glare ; 
I thought o' Geordie and his lass ; 

I ken't they wad be there ; 
I heard the gale ; my cheek grew pale ; 

I prayed an earnest prayer. 

"Slaw, as wi' pain, rolled on the train, 

And left the southern shore ; 
It scarce had reached the centre span, 

When, wi' the thunder's roar. 
There cam fu' fast a mighty blast. 

That swept the river o'er. 

"It struck the brigg wi' fcarfu' strength! 

Waes me ! The unco' sight ! 
There straight uprose high in the air 

A flash o' lurid light. 
Then the waters quenched the yellow flames, 

And a' again was night. 

"Oh lang I waited, but in vain : 

M3' bairns did ne'er arrive. 
The moon shone through the rifted clouds ; 

I see'd the waters strive 
Wi' the ruined heap, that filled the deep. 

Nae soul was left alive !" 

His tale was told. The Scotchman old 

To hide his grief was fain ; 
He turned away in silent mood, 

And left the heathy plain. 
With moistened eye, I watched him go. 

And longed to soothe his pain. 

I've traversed oft old Scotland's braes ; 
Full well her shores I know ; 



730 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

From liighlaud lochs to lowland meads, 
Where Tweed and Solwa}- flow ; 

But I never heard, in all my walks, 
So sad a tale of woe. 



George SSaillis ISatterson. 

Geo. W. Patterson, a son of Hon. James W. Patterson, is a native of Hanover. 
He graduated at Dartmouth College in 1881, and became a lawyer. 



A HYMN. 

Let me love Thee, God, and be 
Bound in sweetness unto Thee. 
Gently let my spirit pra}', 
Gentl}', God, to Thee alwa}-. 

Faithful let me be to Thee, 
God of mercy — loving me. 
Let my heart and soul and mind. 
Yearning for Thee, yearn and find. 

Let me unto Thee aspii'e. 
Let thy spirit's hol}^ fire 
From all taint ray heart secure, 
That it gentle be and pure. 

Let me, troubled, fly to Thee, 
As the djing roe would flee 
From the hunter's clinging dart. 
Thou Consoler of the heart. 

Let me love Thee, God, and be 
Bound in sweetness unto Thee. 
Gentl}- let my spirit pray. 
Gently, God, to Thee alway. 



VENICE.* 

The deep, grand echoes of those old Doge wars, 

And the mad energies of noontide power 

Swept through her strain, for Venice made no pause. 

Till the fair sea-washed islands were her dower. 

The music saddens, — the melancholy tides 

Seem now to moan upon the crumbling walls, 

♦Suggested by the performance of a piece of music by this name. 



ETTA UDOEA FRENCH. 781 



AVhere Povert}' in voiceless grief abides, 

For Freedom's step sounds not within her halls. 

liut tlie still niglit will watch around the place, 

And the pale moon look down upon her there, 

As they have done. The traveller will trace 

Her histor}' beside her, dead 3et fair. 

Anon, methought I heard the carnival. 

That fostered relic of a gayer day. 

Dance in her touch, and o'er the dim canal 

The gondola sailed on its stately way. 

Bedecked with flowers. Stirrings of triumph ran 

Then through her strain, ceasing as it began. 



SOLITUDE. 

Stillness and silence, absence of human crowds, 

The gentle tones of gentler solitude, — 

These are the spells that lift from out their shrouds 

Of earthliness — a dull, indifferent mood — 

Our thoughts and dreams of new and changing fjites. 

The breezes that fan Nature while she sleeps, 

The streams, the flowers, and their fair featliered mates, 

The singing birds, all that around us sweeps 

In storm or sunshine, summer's peaceful rest, 

The winter with her cold, ambitious winds, 

Kemembered graves that our heart's tears have blest. 

Each influence that gifted Nature binds 

Upon her brow, is music — that from thought 

Strikes tenderer music, which in verse is wrought. 



lEtta ^tiora jfrendj. 

:Mrs. French was born in iManchcster, ^larcli 2-2, lSfi-2. Her parents, Dearborn I'. 
ami Eliza ('. Glines, removed to I'.ostcm wIk'u slie was about five years of age, but 
returned to ."\Iancliester in 1870. She w as educateil at tbe public schools in that city. 
In 1879 she became the wife of Josei)h W. trencli. Tlieir residence is in Man- 
eliester. 



A PRAYER. 

Oh ! Lord, dear Master, we are weak. 
We tremble when we think of Thee ; 

Tliy power and glory bid us speak. 
Thy love and mercy we would see. 

"We tremble to approach thy throne ; 
Forbid not. Lord, our feeble praise, 



732 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 
5 — — 

Forgive us, leave us not alone, 
Bless and support us all our days. 

Father, our times are in thy hand, 
Our life and hope thou didst create, 

And thou hast graven in tiiy word 

That "love" be watchword, never "hate." 

Dear Lord, thy grace for e'er shall be 

For us an all-sufficient store, 
So wilt thou watch and guard and guide, 

Kind Father, what can we ask more ? 



DEATH AND RESURRECTION. 

A river, with its waves of blackest dye, 
O'erhung with veiling clouds no eartlil}' ej'e 

Can penetrate. 
No light I see. I hear the sullen roar ; 
I cannot even see the other shore ; 

And as I wait 
The gloomy fog still thicker rolls its cloud, 
Wrapping my path in one vast, dreary shroud. 

By some strange power 
I'm onward urged. Here must I take my way. 
And faith must guide me to the light of day 

Through this dread hour. 
Within the depths I walk, I sink, I faint ; 
"Lord, save, I perish !" is my quick complaint; 

Swift comes the guide : 

"Lo ! I am with you," saith the Saviour's word, 
"And I have gone before, and mai'ked the road, 

I'm at thy side." 
Oh ! resurrection, heaven-born and bright ! 
As hope comes, clouds roll back, and to my sight 

The other shore, — 
The glowing, golden spires of heaven reveal. 
Its rising grandeur all m^^ soul doth heal, 

I fear no more. 
The waves of heavenly music rise and roll 
Triumphant, sweet, over my waiting soul ; 

I hear the tone 
Whose cadences divine such mere}- wear ; 
Above my sinful, faltering heart I hear 

The sweet "well done." 



ETTA VDOBA FEENCII. 



'33 



QUESTIONS. 

What is there in the storm-tossed sea 

To speak of wond'rous strength and power? 
How rush the strong winds o'er the lea, 

Bowing in fury tree and flower ? 
How frowns the sky with tempests cast? 

How flaslies out the Hghtning's sweep ? 
What strange power stays the storm at last, 

That sobs and gi'ieves itself to sleep ? 

What subtle charm is in the sky ? 

The fleecy cloud now flecks the blue, 
Now turns to gold in mid-daj-'s eye, 

Now burns like fire in sunset's hue. 
The robins carol forth their song ; 

And wild-birds, from the green wood sprays, 
The thankful, graceful tune prolong 

In blithesome, cheery roundelays. 

The lilies blossom white and red, 

The fragrant roses scent the air. 
With rain and dew the fields are fed. 

The whole earth speaks God's loving care. 
Lo ! there is beaut}- everywhere, 

Though we ma^- only see a part. 
Whj' seem these blessings all so rare ? 

Why speak these things unto man's heart ? 

Oh ! back of all the storms and wind 

Is God's divine and powerful hand. 
Behind the sky His focc so kind 

Is smiling on the favored land. 
The birds but sing His care for all. 

The flowers the same sweet storj- tell ; 
If these upon His bounty fall, 

Will He not man protect as well? 

Then learn to trust His bounteous grace, 

Lean on His mercy kind and true. 
Fear not thy Father's friendly face 

That beams with sympathy for you. 
Rest in Him ; trust Him, as "a chifd 

Is led by earthly parent's hand ; 
So shalt tliou recognize his smile, 

And enter heaven's fair, radiant land. 



734 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

THE GOLDEN CITY. 

A city's walls, 
Jasper-built, flame out with shimmering light, 
With the Lamb's glory, half transparent, bright ! 
The sun faints, as the wondrous, dazzling sight 

Upon it falls. 
No more we need thy shining rays, O sun. 
To mark the passing time ; thy race is run. 
God is the light thereof, and Time is done. 

Eternit}- 
Begins its ponderous endless wheel to turn, 
Twelve pearls as gates on golden hinges burn. 
The twelve foundations are of precious stone. 

Bridal city ! 
Over i\\j streets and domes and spires of gold, 
O'er thy strange beaut}- never 3-et half told. 
O'er throne and people, glor}- cloud enrolled, 

God reigns in love. 
"Within those walls all who in Him confide 
P^orever serve Him as their King and Guide ; 
None but the pure and holv there abide 

With him above. 
His hand shall wipe all sorrow's teai's away. 
Their white robes clothe them like the light of day. 
Their crowns send forth a golden, gleaming ra}' 

Like stars in night. 
Down on them falls the blessing sweet and strange, 
Immortal life, that knows no grief or change ; 
And o'er those Eden-bowered fields the^' range 

In sweet delight, — 
By the river of life, that flows adown 
To the sea of glass, from beneath God's throne. 
While they sing to harps of celestial tone. 

Triumphant Grace ! 
Oh, may we stand within that City's wall, 
To hear the music as it swells and falls. 
To hear the loving Father when he calls. 

And see His face. 



THOMAS. 

"Nay, ask me not, for I will not believe. 
Till I the Master's very face do see. 

And touch the wounds 1 saw m}' Christ receive ; 
Till then I will not think of Galilee. 



JAMES MEADE ADAMS. 735 

What ! risen 3"ou sa}-? Na}-, Peter ; say it not. 

How ! "would He la}' His head within the grave 
Had he such power? But oh ! I trusted that 

He was the true Messiah, come to save 

"His people, and to lift them from their sin. 

And trul}' all His life was grandly spent, 
Yea, on the lake He calmed tlie storm's wild din ; 

E'en when He died the temple's vail was rent ! 
Nature owned Him master ; diseases fled 

Before His touch, and devils called Him blest ; 
And, when He had no place to lay His head, 

Earth softeaed Him a pillow on her breast. 

"But He was mortal, and the cruel spears 

Of heartless soldiers pierced and gored bis side, 
And while the wondering sun grew black with tears, 

Our Christ, our Hope and our Salvation died. 
Nay, Peter, do not tell me o'er again ; 

I have no heart to realize the news ; 
Sa}' rather that our Saviour's blest remains 

Are stolen from us by the wicked Jews." 

A presence and a face, whose loving eyes 

Pierced through the black clouds of his doubt and dread, 
A tender voice that knew of no disguise ; 

"Thomas, touch me, I am alive, not dead !" 
The holden floodgates of that doubter's faith 

Gave sudden wa}-, and overwhelmed his soul, 
"O Lord !" he cried, "yea, Thou hast conquered Death!" 

And, weeping there, poor Thomas was made whole. 



James fHcatrc ^tiamg. 

James M. Arliims was born in Nashua, June 26, 1862. Ilis father was a solcUor 
in the 7th regiment N. II. Volunteers, aud died of disease at Beaufort, S. C, 
Aug. 25, 1862. When James was four years old his mother removed to Xorth 
Weare, aud soon after died, leaving liim in care of an aunt with whom he lias since 
resided. 



OCTOBER. 

jewel-crowned October bright, 
The queen of all the year. 

Resplendent in thy crimson robes, 
We bid you welcome here. 



1 3(5 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

We bid 5'ou come to reign again 
O'er all our vales and hills, 

Ere winter's ic}' touch shall chill 
Our bright and sparkling rills. 

No fairer queen was ever seen 
By subject, than art thou ; 

We own thy power each gladsome hour, 
And crown anew thy brow. 

Thy crimson robe is flecked with gold, 
And trimmed with brightest green ; 

While yet thy magic eyes emit 
Warm rays of sunlight sheeif. 

With lavish hand thou spread' st abroad 
The fruits of autumn rare. 

The purple grape, the blushing peach, 
The apple, and the pear. 

A fairer queen was never seen 
'By subject, than art thou ; 

Each gladsome hour we own thy power, 
And crown anew thy brow. 



LAD AND LASSIE. 

*'0 Jamie, maun ye leave me? 

O Jamie, maun ye go? 
Ye dinna ken 'twould grieve me 

And fill my heart with woe. 

"0 Jamie, on the billow 

There's monie a lad been lost, 

While nightly on her pillow 
A sleepless lassie tossed. 

"O Jamie, if ye gang awa' 
The light will turn to gloom, 

A lassie's heart which is her a' 
Will find a Hving tomb. 

"A lassie's heart which is her a' 
Will lie within a tomb ; 

A lassie's cheek 3'e ca' sae braw 
Will lose its bonnie bloom." 



ANNIE E. DE WOLFE. 737 



"O Jeanie, quiet a' your fears, 
An' let your heart be glad ; 

Dry up, my lass, those pearl}- tears, 
An' be na longer sad. 



"For I'll na leave ye for the sea. 
Nor from 36 will I stray ; 

Your loving laddie I will be 
Forever and for aye !" 



ISABEL DEANE. 

Oh ! why dost tliou haunt me forever, 
M}- beautiful Isabel Deaue? 

There's never a lake or a river 
But in it thj' image is seen. 

And in the dark pines in the night-time 
I see thy sweet face all the same, 

And mythical beings around me 
Seem ever to whisper thj- name. 

I never sit down in the twilight 
But a form stands out all alone, 

In which in its matchless beauty 
I recognize none but thine own. 

O Isabel, Isabel, darling ! 

In fancy thou'rt Avith me for aye ; 
In reality ne'er shall I meet thee 

Until the last closing of day. 



Miss Dc Wolfe was born in Nasluia, October 12, 18(i3. She is a <laiiglitoi- of Uic 
late George (f. B. De Wolfe, whose poenih are fouiKl elsewhere In this volume. 



UNE PENSEE. 

The watch-bells of the long, still night 

Peal on the sigli-fed air ; 
The rain is dropping, soft and light, 

Pound globules, wondrous rare. 



738 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Oh, month of tears and quick-shed showers, 

Oh, month of clouded sun ! 
We think of love's pink-tinted flowers, 

And bless these skies so dun. 

Oh, pure love bud ! come grow for me, 

Fairer than song hath told ! 
Oh, sweet love flower ! come blow for me. 

And fragrance rich enfold. 

I'a'C seen thee bloom, far, far away ; 

I've dreamt I held thee here ; 
I'd dream again, and when I wake 

Bewail thee with a tear ! 



jFannic ll^untiugton Kunnclis. 

Miss Runuels, the daughter of a Congregational clergyman, was born at Orfunl, 
l>epeniber 5, 1863. 



THE POET'S DREAM. 

On song's seraphic pinions borne afar, 
A poet found him in a dreamy vale 
Made sacred to the gods, and consecrate 
To solitude, to meditation shrined. 
By mount Parnassus cloistered from the world, 
Forever washed by founts Castalian. 
"O grim Disquietude, with folded wings. 
Rest thee," the poet sang, "in this great peace !" 
The poet's freedom gave him tuneful breath, 
Nor could he wish abode more isolate 
From narrow confines of a narrow world ; 
^ This measured space Arcadian which fell 
From overflowing Paradise, beyond his ken 
Reached out to mock a broad sufficient world, 
For to the poet, heir of other worlds, 
Who seeketh the divinity supreme 
Enthroned within a thousand twinkling orbs, 
Worlds greater this but feebl}^ miniatures, — 
This world that gives his natural being breath. 

One eve 
Auspicious and serene, upon the mount 



FANNIE HUNTINGTON EUNNELS. 739 

Descended, in the poet's full behold, 

A chariot that seemed a cloud of tiarae. 

Wherein were poet-sages and with thein 

Til' incarnate inspiration of tlieir song ; — 

>Such vital power that fed their purer minds 

"Was that, that sympathetic hearts do thrill 

And glad respond, a holier brotlierhood I 

The poet clad him in a pilgrim guise, 

Untiring songht to scale the rugged steeps, 

Till the sharp rocks denied him furtherance. 

And straight received his torn and bleeding frame ; — 

When loud there rang a fiat thunderous 

From peak to peak : "Despairing Pilgrim, stay 1 

Think not to dare these heights precipitate 

Until from actual merit of thine own, — 

Some human good, the gods conduct thee here. 

Grieve not, we send our angels ministrant ;" 

And thcreu2)on chief of this lofty band 

Ordained a guide, an heavenly Beatrice, 

To lead him back unto his lulen-land. 

Now from the mount 

Come maids Shaksperian with varied charm, — 

First Juliet with love in every look. 

Full-blended with her life-blood ; Imogen, 

Clothed in devotion and lidelity ; 

Helena with the golden hair of Hope, 

And heart heroic ; Portia, dignided 

Of grace, with soul refined ; P'air Rosalind 

(xiides dancing by in tender gayety ; 

Viola with a pensive sweetness filled, 

And modesty of mien ; Hermione, 

Unrobed in deathless faithfulness, and pure ; — 

These in sweet chorus sang him to repose. 

Right soon he woke as the angelic voice 

Of Laura made rich music in his ear ; 

He scarce could see for sunlight of her hair 

Beneath the virtuous coronal she wore ; 

Content to feel her presence' infiuence 

He could not brook the beaut}' of her lace. 

Down stepped Elaine, fair maid of Astolat, 

Shone in her hand the shield of Lancelot, — 

A talisman to keep her spirit pure. 

The stately Maud tripped lightly l)y his side — 

Maud, ruby-lipped and decked in dewy flowers. 

A gentle form above him bent, a face 

Was mirrored in the rocks, the trees. Yon rill 



740 POETS OF NEW HAMP8HLBE. 

Shone back the radiance of her tranquil soul, 
Tlie light that only Lucy could impart 
Came from her large eyes luminous and deep, — ■ 
A space the star of Wordsworth shone for him. 
And Genevieve, the hope, the joy, the light 
Of Coleridge, with noiseless foot-fall passed, — 
Her bosom swelling with an inward love, 
Her eyes downcast. And gentle Christabel, 
With beating heart, in attitude of prayer 
Bent low beside a neighb'ring hollow oak, 
Within the poet's ken. Beside, he saw 
The Duchess May upon her noble steed, 
Anear her sate her gallant lord, Sir Gu}'. 
Ah, woe ! he saw their onward ride to death. 
But death and all its terrors seemed a dream. 
For look of deathless triumph on her face ; 
And one, whose breath in gentle slumber moved. 
The poet heard, and turning, he beheld 
Saint Agnes' dreamer, artless Madeline, 
While in the dim drew near young Porph3TO, 
His soul a-gleam with admiration hushed. 
Tempted but held aloof in holy awe. 
A sigli of sweet content tlie poet yields. 
As twain in one, love-led, they steal awa3^ 
Alas ! a shadow darkens o'er the scene — 
Lone Margaret in her imprisonment, 
Moaning, "My heart is sore, my peace is gone !" 
O glory of her life become a pall ! 
O Mary mother, there's a living death, 
But may th}' sweet saints pray her soul to rest. 
That 'neath the pall of death there may be peace- 
Such peace, denied of earth, attend her soul ! 
A burst of sunhght breaks the dayless gloom, 
(^uick followed b}' a flood of rapturous song. 
And Shelley's skylark pours from purple clouds 
A challenge to the cliain of slumber weft 
Around the poet ; he dare not resist. 
Nor can he tear him from the potent spell. 
"Here in this valle}' let me ever rest. 
While by me surge the throng innumerable, — 
The real and the ideal, glorious 
Li song, whose lives command the poet's theme, 
That breathe an inspiration to my soul ! 
No more I mourn the unattain6d heights, 
AVhere bards sublime in lofty commune dwell, 
Can I but see reflection of their own 



LULU E. TEEVITT. 741 

In lives through thoin unmortal, and made pure 

In the rolhiing ordeal of life." 

The poet ended, and upon his brow 

A crown of stars fell through the waking morn, 

And he arose like peace when Christ was born. 



?iulu 15. (Zircbitt. 

Miss Trcvitt, is a daugliler of Capt. John Trevitt, of Mount Vernon. She it: pur- 
suinj; her studies at the Aeadeniy in tliat town. Her father is a graduate of \Ves|, 
J'oint, and has been much iu the service of his couutrj-. 



NEW YEAR'S EYE. 

"With smiles or tears, with hoi)es or fears, 

The old year goes. 
We cannot stay it in its fligiit. 
Nor would we call back, if we might, 

Its jo^'s or woes. 

The history of each word and deed 
Now lies before us, and we read. 
With now a smile and then a tear, 
The story of the vanished year. 
We mourn with tender, sad regret 
The sacred joys now past, and yet 
We know the new year hath in store 
Blessings we have not dreamed before. 

We tiiumph for our victories won, 

Or grieve for wrongs that we have done ; 

Once more we feel the crushing pain 

Of bitter sorrow, and again 

We climb with bleeding feet and torn. 

Up steep, rough places ; weary, worn, 

We plead once more for needed rest, 

And finding it, again are blest. 

The lessons that each day has taught, 
• The work our feeble hands have wrought. 
The love we have received or given, — 
Making our earth seem more like heaven, - 
All these have made thee ver}' dear 
To each of us, thou dying year. 



742 POETS OF NEW HAMP8HIBE. 

And in our hearts we live again 

The vanished hours of peace and pain. 

O year, we cannot leave thee 3'et ! 
Our heai'ts still linger, with regret, 
On pleasure, suffering, jo}^ and woe. 
The time draws near when thou must go. 
The moments one by one take flight. 
And gathering tear-drops dim our sight, 
Beloved year — Good-night, Good- night! 

But still our lives go on and on, 
Although the graj' old year has gone, 
For each of us awaits a share 
Of work to do, of pain to bear. 
We know not what there is in store 
For us this 3'ear, but as before 
If we but strive to do His will, 
God's blessing will be with us still. 



AN IDEAL. 

He is strong and brave and knightl}', 

Oh, his heart is true ! 
And he speaketh ever rightly, 
Never deed of wrong unsightly 

Could he do. 

Strong his arm to help the wear}', 

And all wrong to right. 
Never house so sad and dreary. 
But his presence, glad and cheer}^. 

Makes it bright. 

Tender hands to help the wounded, 

Tender heart and pure. 
Sympathy and love unbounded, 
Yet on justice ever grounded. 

Strong and sure. 

Large his heart, an "angel's measure,' 

And his bounty- free. 
Ever seeking others' pleasure, 
Giving of his heart's best treasure, 

Generously. 



MAY E. PERLEY. 743 

Come he now or come he never, 

Notliing mattereth, 
He is mine and mine forever, 
Nothing e'er our love shall sever, 

Life or death. 



IN EMBRYO. 

As an imprisoned bird beats restlessly 

With feeble wings against her cage's bars, 
Then growing stronger, breaking free, 
She rises on swift pinions joyfully 
Up toward the stars ; 

So flutters in my heart of hearts a song, 
Too weak to break its prison bars ; 

But I will nourish it till sweet and strong 

And tender, it shall rise ere-long 
Up toward the stars. 



Miss Perley Is a native and resident of Leinpster. Slie was educated at Tililen 
Female Seminary, West Lebanon, and lias become a school teacher. 



A MORNING IN JULY. 

The glorious sun comes peeping o'er the mountain. 
Shedding o'er hill and plain his splendor bright, 

The sunbeams, springing from this golden fountain, 
Throw over all their spray of dazzling light. 

They play at hide-and-seek behind the shadows, 
With barbs of gold they pierce the lucid pearls 

That mid the grass-blades, spanned by silver ladders, 
Lie glistening clear when night her banner furls. 

A playful breeze is whispering to the clover, 



As to foretell the beautv of the dav 



J ' 



While it to me is gently wafting over 

The breath of meadow pinks and new-mown ha}'. 

And as I stand, all save the scene forgetting. 
Clear, ringing voices fall upon my ear. 

The mowers now their shining scythes are whetting, 
Wiiich tells the hour of five is drawing near. 



744 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

An hundred birds their joyful lays are telling, 
They greet with joy the rising of the sun, 

Tiieir many voices all unite in swelling 
A hymn of praise to the Etei-nal One. 

And as I listen to their gladsome story, 

My song so frail joins theirs, so sweet and grand, 

To the Creator of this world of glor}', 

Who holdeth all as in His strong, right hand. 



jFranrisi ©ana. 

Frauds Dana is the son of Col. George H. Dana (formerly of the 32d Mass. Hcgt.) 
and Frances M., daughter of the late Hon. Edmund Burke of Newport. He was 
born in Singapore, East India, March 4, 18G(i. His parents left India when he was 
aliout three jears of age, and went to Laramie, Wyoming Ty., among the Roc^ky 
Mountains. He remained there until the age of eleven wiienlie entered St. Paul's 
School at Concord. His home is with his parents who reside in Newport. On his 
father's side he is descended from a well known Massachusetts family, the venerable 
poet Richard H. Dana having been one of his relatives; while his materual grand- 
father, Hon. Edmund Burke, was not only an able political writer but had also 
Home poetic talent. 

A DREAM. 

Night overhung the earth with sahle veil, 

And in the starry sky 
Rose high the silver moon with radiance pale. 

While the niglit-raven's cr\'. 
From the seclu.sion of yon wooded hill. 
Discordant, woke the air : all else was still. 

I walked alone beside a stagnant mire, 

Over whose lifeless tide. 
Ever with wavering motion, far and near, 

Strange shadows seemed to glide, 
And now retreat, and turning now advance. 
Mingling their aiiy forms in m^'stic dance. 

I stood, and on the spectral shadows gazed, 

And shuddered at the sight. 
As far and wide the stagnant waters blazed 

With phosphorescent light : 
Lurid and dire the depths illumined shone 
Like the pale waves of gloomy Acheron. 

And wilder grew the dance, and faster still 

The gliding spectres fled 
O'er the smooth surface of the lake at will ; 

My cold-limbs shrunk with dread. 
Nor could I turn, nor take my eyes awa}'. 
For some strange power within that bade me stay. 



HUBBABD ALONZO BAB TON. 745 



With mine orvn living eyes I saio my sprite, 

Which from 1113- body fled, 
Walk the pale waters in tlie silent night, 

Amongst the shadowy dead, 
Join the wild wa^-ward dance uj)on the wave. 
Oh ! I'or some friendly power to see and save ! 

The livelong night I lay in nerveless trance 

Beside the moonlit shore, 
And watched mj- spirit in the spectral dance 

Skim the wide waters o'er, 
Till the long range of eastern hills grew gray 
With the dim glimmer of returning day. 

Then the weird shadows f:\int and fainter grew ; 

The blue fire died away ; 
'Neatli the cool freshness of the morning dew. 

Before the sunlight's my, 
O'er hill and vale rose nature's wakening cry 
From throat of myriad birds in harmony. 

And now the rosy dawn begins to break ; 

The dismal night is done ; 
The fading shadows from the misty lake 

Roll up to meet the sun ; 
A freshening breeze sweeps o'er it from the west, 
Wafting my soul back to my thankful breast. 



What is contained in the remaining portion of tliis vohiniu was prepared for the 
press after most of tlie preceding pages had Ijcen printed, con.sequeutly tlic chrono- 
logi(;al order is not longer attempted. 



H. A. Barton is a native of (_'royd(in, born May 1-2, 1S42. He resides iii Newport, 
and is eilitor of the New Hampuhirv Argus and Spectator. 



DEVOTION. 

Oh when to yonder heavens I gaze, 

Or this gi'een earth survey. 
Where countless worlds in glory blaze. 

And countless creatures phi}', 
'Tis then I think of One above, 
Of boundless wisdom, power, and love. 



740 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 



Rejoice, O earth ! all nature sing, 

And shout Jehovah's praise ; 
And man some grateful off'ring bring 

To thy Creator's praise. 
A contrite heart, tliat sacrifice, 
The Lord thy God will not despise. 

Go when the beams of morning bright 

First gild the eastern skies ; 
Go in the silence of the night. 

And raise th}' grateful eyes 
To Him who rules the world in love, 
And sends his blessings from above. 

Then in devotion's purest strain 

Thy secret faults confess ; 
His grace can cleanse the guilt}' stain, 

And with acceptance bless. 
His grace shall triumph, all shall know 
What His almighty love can do. 

Then praise the Lord, exalt His name, 

Let pure devotion rise, 
And kindle to a livelier flame, 

Whose incense seeks the skies. 
For wide the Lord Jehovah reigns, 
And all His boundless love maintains. 

liflartija aima ^piper. 

Miss Piper was born in Weston, Vt., March 13, 1S41. She removed with her par- 
ents to Claremont in 1859, and her death oceurred in that town, Oct. 4, 1869. A 
memorial of her life, by Rev. Moses T. Runnels, was published iu 1875. 



SATURDAY EVE. 

The latest day is waning, the Sabbath draweth nigh. 
Another sun's declining far in the western sk}' ; 
The bii-ds are sweetl}' singing their evening praise at will. 
Another week is dying, and earth is hushed and still. 

Our heavenly Father, hear us, our stubborn wills subdue, 
Behold our feeble nature, and bid our hearts be true ; 
Oh, lift our spirits higher, and ma}' our wanderings cease ; 
Oh, give us hoi}' pleasure, and let it all be peace. 

And when the Sabbath dawneth, let sacred thoughts arise, 
That we may humbly worship our Father in the skies ; 
And may thy Holy Spirit dwell with us through the day. 
And let a light from heaven dawn on our souls, we pray. 



CAROLINE E. WHITOX—JAMES P. WALKEIL 747 

oratoUne 15. S5ai)itou. 

Mrs. C. E. Wliiton is a native of Portsmouth. Slie is well known in literature, 
ami is the author of much excellent poetry. Nine of her beautiful poem.-j are 
found iu the "Poets of Portsmouth." 



SUMMER SUNSET. 

I watched the golden sumraer sun 
Fade slowly down behind the sea, — 

God's token that the day was done • 
In crhuson flushing left to me. 

Fainter and fainter grew the skies ; 

My heart was dropping noiseless tears ; 
For, ah ! I thought of closing e3-es, 

Whose lids I had not kissed for years. 

Oh ! softly as the setting sun, 

M}- darlings sank behind the sea, — 

God's token that his peace was won, 
Tlie looks of glor}- left to nie. 

By that seraphic light which fell 

Ineffably divine and sweet, 
I know, be3ond the soul's farewell, 

Behind the sea, that we shall meet. 



James 13. Wiaiktx, 

Tlic late James P. Walker was a native of Portsmouth, ne became a publisher 
in Boston. He was at the head of the firm, Walker, Wise and (Joinpany. 



SEVEN YEARS TO-DAY. 

'Tis seven years, m}- love, to-day, 

Since hand in hand we started, 
In faith to tread life's devious way, 

Till we by death are parted. 

And, God be thanked ! — though Fortune's smile 

Our pathwa}' has not lighted, 
And many hopes, indulged long while, 

Have ruthlessly- been blighted, — 

We're spared to one another 3-et, 

And blessed with "troops of friends;" 

No daily want has not been met ; 
And, thanks to Ilim who sends 



r48 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

Life's choicest blessings, love and hope ! 

We are stronger now to bear, 
And abler with life's ills to cope, 

Than if we'd known no care. 

And though those ills we may not cure. 

Nor taste unanxious rest, 
With ''kings and priests of literature," 

Our constant welcome guests, — 

With childhood's laugh, domestic peace, 

And read}' willing hands. 
We murmur not, though no increase 

Is ours, of "house or lands." 



Miss McClintock, was a native and resident of Portsmouth. 



DEATH IN SPRING. 

Nature's life-throb strengtheneth, quickeneth ; 

Count we a pulse-beat faint and slow ; 
Passing beneath her arches of triunipli, 

Vanquished, graveward her child must go. 

Vanquished ! but not so for ever : 
Keep thy triumph, Oh nature life ! 

Heaven and earth shall pass together, 
Soul shall see their parting strife. 

Tree and plant and flower upspringing, 

Fades life's nobler bloom awa}- ? 
Death the pictured form effaceth, 

Fainth^ drawn upon the clay. 

Bird and breeze and brook in chorus. 

Striving with one dying tone, 
Soul shall sing when \e are silent ; 

Drown that breathing faint — swell on ! 

Catching a tone that falls from heaven. 
Sings this life like a mocking-bird : 

Let the notes die ! soaring God-ward, 
The immortal skylark's heard. 

Father ! to thee we commend the spirit 
Over the waters drifting to thee ; 



S. ADAMS WIGGIN. 749 

Down in the black gulf, oh white angel diver ! 
Rescue the soul — immortality ! 

"There shall be no more sea," cries the angel ; 

Crieth the soul, the sea could not drown ; 
Safe on the shore where the God-beloved season, 

Spring-time eternal, weareth the crown. 



S. stratus S^llisgin, 

Of this poet it may be said that he is a native, or was a resident of Portsmouth. 
He opcupies an lionoraljle place in that excellent volume, "The Poets of Ports- 
mouth." He removed from that city to Washington, I). C, but his present re.si- 
deiuie, if he is yet alive, is uuknown to the compiler of this booli. 



LOVE. 

This morn I wandered in the wood, 

And asked a wild-bird free, 
Where dwells true love, — the highest good ; 

And he carolled thus to me : 

"Love is thy hoi 3- Paraclete, 

To comfort and sustain ; 
To make th}- life with jo}' replete. 

And Eden bloom again. 

Love is the harp of David, sweet, 

To calm your wild despair, 
And lay your soul at Jesus' feet. 

An offering pure and ftxir. 

Love is the "II0I3' of Holies" fane, 

"Where burns the sacred flame 
That frees the heart from every stain 

Of sorrow, guilt, or shame. 

Love is the bearing of the cross, 

Christ's easy yoke to wear. 
To count for him all things but dross. 

So you his "crown" ma^' wear. 

For Love is God, and God is Love ; 

In him find all thy rest ; 
Centre thy hopes on things above, 

And Love shall till thy breast. 

Love wings tb}' flight to realms of light ; 
Love opes the "gate" for thee ; 



"50 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 



Love decks in robes of spotless white, 
With palms of victory." 

Tliis is the song the wild-bird free 

Warbled in tuneful strains ; 
My soul was cheered, bent was the knee ; 

My heart the song retains. 



Samuel i^^utiiBion ^^artritrge. 

Rev. S. H. rartridge is pastor of the Congregational clmrch in Greenlield. He 
was formerly pastor of a church in Hillsborough. He was born in Dalton, October 
15, 1827. 



HYMN. 

Dear Saviour, when my love for thee 
Springs forth anew, as fountain free. 
The words I seek to voice th}' praise 
Have all been used in other days. 

Dear Lord, I hope thine eyes can see 
A light of love, in rnine, for thee, 
Unlike all else, and all my own, — 
Some like the rainbow round the throne. 

I hope the songs that in m}' soul 
Keep up their ceaseless, wordless roll 
Are heard b^' thee, and treasured e'en, 
Till I can know all that they mean. 

Till then, I tune some ancient lyre, 
And kindle at another's fire, 
While marching, with thine armj^ strong. 
To reach our home, the land of song. 



csrijarlcs iL. mi\)t\zx, 

Charles L. Wheler, a printer, while a resident of Concord published a volume of 
his pounis entitled, "The Winnowing." In 1848 he went to Athens, Georgia, and 
became editor and publisher of the Athens Jcnirnal. 



THE SMILE. 

The heavens were blushing 'neath morning's first beam, 
As brightly he came through the portals of day, 

Wlien softlj' adown the light's silvery stream, 
A smile, like an angel, was holding its way. 



IB A HARRIS COUCH. 751 



It came to the earth, and a cottage of cla}- 

"Was blessed with the love that fell bright from its wing ; 
It stole to the lip of a child at its phi}-, 

And wreathed o'er its face with the brightness of spring. 

The mother delightedly hung o'er her child, 

And brother and sister came thronging around, 

And echoed his calling, so merr^' and wild. 
Till trembled the air with the jubilant sound. 

That smile, as a glance, passed from face unto face, 
And cheered every heart with a blessing benign ; 

Nor sorrows nor cares but departed apace 

When dawning the}' saw but that heavenly sign. 

Oil ! sweet is the da}', and delightful the earth, 

When smiles in the morning bless children and friends. 

For kindness and friendship join hands at the hearth, 
And peace to each heart, like the soft dew, descends. 



Ira H. Couch was born in Salislniry, July 17, 1821. He was fitted for eollege hut 
ill liealth obliged him to give up study and engage in out-door work. He became 
a farmer, and later in life engaged in mechanieal work. His voems were neai-ly 
all written in his early years, and were published in various newspapers. He 
died -lauuary 14, 1883. 



SONNET TO A CRICKET. 

Thou bane of sleep, avaunt ! why dost thou come 

Thus all night long with tli}' sad minstrelsy. 

To chase the enchanti-ess from my sleepless room ? 

Dost thou not feel the sweet necessity 

Of night's somniferous reign? Yet though thou'rt free 

From the soft thraldom of that silken chain 

Wherewith sleep fettereth man, O pit}' me 

Who long upon my restless couch in vain, 

Have wooed oblivion to these weary e3es ; 

I listen to thy sad, unvaried note, 

Till tbrms, unearthly, in the moonlight float. 

On wizard wing, and strangest melodies 

Startle dull silence on her midnight throne. 

And fright sweet slumber from m}- pillow lone. 



TWILIGHT. 

Grateful twilight ! season bland ! 
By soft breathing zephyrs fanned, 



J-)2 POETS OF NEW HA3IP8HIBE. 

As th}' red light fades away, 
Round me whispering spirits say, 
"•Cleave with us the easy air, 
Haste away to worlds more fair." 

Father ! may my end of life. 
When I go from earth away, 
Be as peaceful, free from strife, 
As tliis dying breath of day ; 
Glad I'd la}' me down to sleep 
Till the morning light shall peep. 



gllfrctr Hittle. 

Alfred Little was born in Boscawen, June 3, 1823. At six years of age a partial 
paralysis disabled one limb, obliging him to use a crutcli. In 1836 the family of his 
father removed to Peoria, 111., wtiere a rheumatic fever destroyed the use of his 
other leg. In 1840, soon after the death of his father, he retui-ned to his native town 
and in the autumn of the same year commenced work in the melodeon and sera- 
phine shop of Charles Austin inConoord. Here he invented improvements in the 
manufacture of double reeil instruments, and also in tuning of instruments. He 
became subsequently very ijopulnr as a concert giver and has given delight to hun- 
dreds of thousands in New England and at the West. He was a man of rare merit, 
a refined gentleman and had many literary acquirements. He died December 27, 
1880. 



MY MEERY MAPLE GROVE. 

There is a spot to memory dear. 

Where oft in childhood I would rove. 
The meiT}^ wild-bird's song to hear ; 

It was my maple grove. 
How fair the view on every side — 

The church on j-onder hill, 
Kearsarge in all its lofty pride, 

The pond so clear and still. 

And then the moss-grown rock I'd climb, 

To pick the berries ripe and red ; 
While squirrels scattered from the limb 

Their nutshells on my head. 
'Twas there I hammered from the ledge 

Bright garnets hued like wine. 
Or gathered from its western edge 

The nodding columbine. 

Dear maple grove ! I see thee now. 
Enrobed in dress of flowing green ; 

There stands m}- boyhood's home below. 
With grass}' lane between. 



JAMES WILLIS PATTERSON. 753 



Though fairer scenes perchance may be 

To win a poet's love, — 
Yet thou art ever dear to me, 

M}- merry maple grove. 

There's not a tree that braves the gale, 

Or towering rock or purling rill, 
But telleth each its simple tale 

Of recollection still. 
Though flowers may fade and friends may die, 

Though far away I rove, — 
Yet often sliall winged memor^^ fly 

To thee ! my maple grove. 



James WixWx^ 13attcrgon. 

James \V. Patterson was born in Henniker, Julv 2, 1823. He graduated at 
Dartmouth College in 1848; and was professor of Mathematics in that college from 
18.54 to 1859, when he became professor of Astronemy and Meteorologv until 18(>i 
He was member of Congress, 1863-7, and U. S. Senator 1867-73. Jlr. "Patterson's 
poems were all written in his youth. The poem here given is copied from the 
'•Book of Gems." 



EVENTIDE. 

The golden gleams 

Of sunset beams 
Have bathed the crest of the solemn mount 
AVith floods of fire from their heavenly fount. 
And the dying day, with its fading light. 
Casts lingering smiles on the face of night. 

The steeple's spire 

Is tipi)'d with fire, 
And the lambent rays, like an angel's smile. 
Gild o'er tlie hallowing, sacred pile, 
And fading away on its arching dome, 
Direct above to the spirit's home. 

The ocean light 

Blends with the night. 
As, mirroring back from the deepening blue, 
Each starry gem comes forth to view, 
And a choral song from the sounding deep 
Is sweetlj- murmured to the Maker's seat. 

The da}' is gone, 
Night trembles on 
To where its last fleet moments ending. 



754 POETS OF NEW HAMP8HIBE. 

In stilly darkness fast descending ; 

And fleeting ghosts ascend the mountain high, 

To list the music of the starry sky. 



Mrs. Francis is the youngest daughter of Dr. Willard P. Gibson who was many- 
years a resident of Newport and who in 1837 died in Woodstocli, Vt., a few years 
alter the family removed from Newport. 



TOO LATE. 

If this love, that is gilding life's summer. 

Had been mine in life's spring, 
How my soul would have met the new comer 

With garment and ring. 
With sacrifice oflTered in gladness. 

With hope for the beautiful years ! 
Alas ! from the depths of my sadness, 

I greet it with tears. 

Too late do we stand at the altar ! 

Too late 3'ou rejoice ! 
Too late do 3'ou tremble and falter 

At the sound of my voice ! 
The hand that you hold has grown thinner ; 

The heart has known anguish and fears ; 
I am yours, O victorious winner ! 

I salute you with tears ! 

You say that love's golden September 

Is faithful and strong ; 
You marvel that I should remember 

Love's May -time of wrong. 
The sorrow, for you, is all over ; 

My heart is prophetic in fears, — 
And so, for 3'our kiss as my lover, 

I offer my tears. 

What ! give to the cheek, in its whiteness, 

Praise lost to its bloom ? 
What ! turn from the ej'es in their brightness, 

And worship their gloom ? 
The rose, in its freshness and beauty, 

You crushed, in your earlier years, — 
Will you cherish it, faded, from duty? 

I answer with tears. 



SARAH T. WASOX—MABY M. G. EDDY. 755 



Sarai) Ef)txtm (Mason. 

Mrs. Wason is a daughter of Captain John Larason. She was born in New Bos- 
ton, and educated at New Ipswich Academy. In 184;5 she became the wife of 
Abraham Wason, a wealtliy fanner, residing near Joe English Hill. Mrs Wason's 
poetical taste has been in^llirl•(i by the bold and delightful scenery amid which she 
has lived, by the broad acres her husband has tilled, and by the flowers cultivued 
with her own care. Her occasional poems have been received with much commen 
dation. In 1880 a small volume of lier poetry was published. 



ALMOST HOME. 

I am almost home ! I am near the sliore 

Where the spirit shall rest when its dreams are o'er ; 

And waves of unrest and sorrow and sin 

or this lower world maj^ not enter in. 

As I linger here, o'er memory's sea 
Fond recollections come floating to me ; — 
The nearest loves that on earth are given 
More beautiful seem, when matured in heaven. 

I am almost home ! Oh, I long to be 

Where the soul, unfettered, and evermore free,- 

Ma}' catch glad notes of the seraphim's song 

That are echoed through heaven by the angelic throne. 

I am nearing home, and the e3-e of faith 
Looks calmly over the river of death ; — 
The radiant gleam that comes from above 
Is the sunshine of God's unchangeable love. 



JHarg iiflorse Slobcr iStrtri). 

Mrs. Eddy was born in Sanbornton, July IC, 1821. Of late she has resided in 
Boston, and has preached regularly on Sundays at the Hawthorne Rooms. She is 
author of an able metaphysical treatise, entitled, "Science and Healtli." She mar- 
ried flrstly, G. W. Glover; secondly, D. Patterson; and thirdly, G. Eddy. Shu has 
one son, Geo. W. Glover. 



OLD MAN OF THE MOUNTAIN. 

Gigantic size, unfallen still that crest ! 
Primeval dweller where the wild winds rest ! 
Be3ond the ken of mortal e'er to tell 
What power sustains thee in thy rock-bound cell. 

Or if, when erst creation vast began, 

And loud the universal flat ran, 

"Let there be light!" — from chaos dark. set free. 

Ye rose, a monument of Deity. 



756 POETS OF NEW HAMP8HIBE. 

Frond from yon cloud-crowned height thou peerest forth 
On insignificance, that peoples earth ; 
Recalling oft the bitter drug which turns 
The mind to meditate on what it learns. 

Stern, passionless, no soul those looks betra}-. 
Though kindred rocks, to sport at mortal clay — 
Like to the chisel of the sculptor's art, 
"Play round the head, but come not to the heart." 

Ah, who can fathom thee ! Ambitious man, 
Like a trained falcon in the Gallic van, 
Guided and led, can never reach to thee 
With e'en the strength of weakness, vanity. 

Great as thou art, and paralleled by none. 
Admired by all, still art thou drear and lone, 
The moon looks down on tliine exiled height ; 
The stars, so mildly, spiritually bright. 

On wings of morning gladly flit awa}^. 
To mix with their more genial, mighty ray ; 
The white waves gentl}' kiss the murmuring rill ; 
But thy deep silence is unbroken still. 



Hgtiia a. S^a^eg (©tear. 

Mra. Obear was born in Laconia in 1820. "Without assistance she acquired an ed- 
ucation which enabled her to teach schools successfully for ten years. She became 
the wile of Mr. L. H. Obear of New Ipswich. 



WELCOME TO AN INFANT GRANDDAUGHTER. 

Welcome, welcome, young immortal ! 
Standing at life's opening portal. 

All earth's pathway yet untrod ! 
Wintry skies are bending o'er thee. 
Snow-bound all the way before thee. 
Dreary seems the road ? 

Shrink not, fear not, little stranger ; 
One who shieldeth mid all danger 

Holds thee safely in his hand ; 
Sheltering arms He's thrown around thee, 
With a mother's love has crowned thee, 

In this stranger land ! 

Heavenly blessings without number 
Wait thee, baby ! softly slumber 
Till thou hast th}^ needed rest. 



NANCY D. CURTIS. 



Then, pursue thy journey onward 

BlitheK, as the lark flies sunward, 
Toward the city of the blest ! 



HYMN. 

For the Boxborough Centennial Celebration, 1883. 

Our helper, God ! we bless thy name 

For tokens of thy gracious care, 
In every season still the same, 

In ever}' need, and everywhere. 

We lift to thee our songs of praise. 
From the green hills our fathers trod, 

For all the love that crowns our daj's, 
Rejoicing in our fathers' God. 

"We bless thee for the sturd}- arms 
That laid the trackless forests low, 

And planted homes and fields and farms, 
For us, — a hundred years ago. 

We praise thee for the memories sweet 

That cluster round these hearths and homes. 

And draw the willing wanderer's feet 
To native hills, where'er he roams. 

These scenes, with sacred memories fraught, 
Inspire our hearts with grateful 133-8 I 

For all our fathers bore and wrought 

Their children's children give Thee praise ! 



Kancg 319 . (ffurtisi. 



Mrs. Nancy D. Curtis was born in Beverly, Mass. Her maiden name was Elling- 
wood. Havinp lost her parents in earlv chi'lilliood she went to Boston. Mass. to live. 
Kev. J. W. KllinKwoort of Bath, M.iinc, was her father's brother. After her mar- 
riage with Mr. Samuel Curtis of Bo>ti>n, they removed to Concord, N. II., whi-re 
her liusband died, and where she still resides. 



MUSIC AT MIDNIGHT. 

The breath of music o'er my spirit stealing, 
Up from the valley to my couch of rest, 

Comes like the "harp of David," touched with feeling, 
To soothe the moaning, of my weary breast. 

Waking sweet memories, long buried deep, 
Of loving voices, hushed in.deatli's long sleep 

Forevermore. 



758 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

Up from the vallej, where the moon is sleeping, 
It softly floats upon the midnight breeze, 

And, rising higher, sends a joyous greeting 

To song-bird hushed, within the grand old trees. 

Then in low murmurs gently sinks to rest, 

Like angel voices whispering from the blest, 

Forevermore. 

Up through my casement comes its plaintive wailing, 
In low sweet tones, like those who, doomed to part. 

Yet strive, with tenderness and love unfailing. 
To soothe the anguish of each other's heart. 

I hold my breath to hear, for in that soothing tone 

Come voices of the past, that echo back my own 

Forevermore. 

Oh ! many spirits their lone vigils keeping. 

Toiling all day, and watching through the night. 

Turn from life's burden, with its cares and weeping, 
To bless the hallowed tones that bring delight. 

Giving a foretaste of that melody on high, 

Where voices join in harmon}^ that cannot die, 

Forevermore. 



^ntiretD Hflcjfarlantr. 

Andrew McFarland, M. D., LL.D., was born in Concord, July, 1817. He is a son 
of Rev. Asa McFarland, D. D., who was many years pastor of the old First Con- 
gregational Church in Concord, and a brother of the late Dea. Asa McFarland, the 
well liuown printer and editor of Concord. His academical education was princi- 
pallv obtained at Gilnianton Academy. He received his professional education 
under the instruction of Dixi Crosby, M. D., Professor of Surgery in the Medical 
Peijartment of Dartmouth College. He practised medicine at Sanbornton 1838 — '44 ; 
at Laconia 1844 — '45; was appointed superintendent of the N. H. Asylum for the 
Insane, July, 184.5; resigned in 1852. He then visited asylums for the insane in 
Eui-ope, and pul)lished, on his return, a volume of letters," issued by B. B. Mussey 
of Boston, (now out of print.) In April, IB.H he was appointed superintendent of 
Ihe Illinois State Hospital for the Insane, at Jacksonville, 111. In 1858 he became 
president of the Illinois State Medical Society, and in 18G0— '61— '62 and '63 was pres- 
ident of "Association of Superintendents of American Institutions for the Insane." 
The degree of Doctor of Laws was conferred on him by Illinois College in 18(i9. 
In 1870 he resigned State service and founded, at Jacksonville, an institution known 
as "McFarland Retreat for the Insane" now receiving a wide patronage from the 
states and territories of the West. 



THE MOTHER'S PRAYER. 

I had a mother ; peaceful is her rest ; 
Of all her kind the purest, loveliest, best. 
How my full heart with rapt emotion swells 
As her loved form in memory's picture dwells, 
AVhile to her skies my thoughts transported seem, 
And the verse kindles at so blest a theme. 



ANDBEW MCFARLAND. 759 

Hers was the gift sublime all powers to move 
By the persuasives of the tenderest love ; 
With sweetest arts alone to inspire a fear, 
Chide with a sigh and chasten with a tear ; 
For no reproof in lasting power could vie 
With the remonstrance of her gentle eye, 
And erring ones the wayward path forsook. 
Awed to repentance by her saddened look. 

The way she trod seemed strewn with heavenly light ; 
Her shining step made dut3''s pathwa}' bright, 
Lighted the goal she pointed us to win. 
Blinded the sight to avenues of sin, 
Till such a lustre gilt tlie upward way, 
No eye could miss — no footstep go astray. 

While of her life each moment had its sum 
Of present good or seed of good to come. 
There was an hour more sacred than the rest, 
When Sabbath's sun was sinking in the west. 
When hol3' quiet reigned, her 3'ounger three 
With wonted rule were gathered at her knee. 
Then each, in turn, the allotted lesson said. 
And, verse b^- verse, the scripture task was read. 
Mingled with comment apt and gems of lore. 
Culled, as we passed, from her exhaustless store. 

When all was ended, from her hallowed chair 
Rose, low and sweet, the accents of her pra3'er ; 
Innpassioned faith and love inspired her tongue, 
Like Israel to the given pledge she clung. 
Implored for each of the encircling band 
The needed succor of the Father's hand. 
For each some wished-for grace she fervent craved. 
That each from tempter's wile might e'er be saved. 
That all, how wide their earthl}- lot be cast. 
Might meet around the eternal throne at last. 

As the lawgiver's face with glory shone. 
Fresh from the presence of the Holy One, 
So, when she turned to us, her features glowed. 
As one who, face to foce, had seen her God. 
And while her heart with love maternal burned. 
And while her lip with bless'd communion warmed, 
Each child in turn was folded to her breast. 
And on each brow a loving kiss was pressed. 



760 POETS OF NEW HAMP8HIME. 

That holy kiss, so warml}" given, 
Was owned and registered in heaven ; 
Mid chance and change I feel it stand, 
Fixed by the eternal Graver's hand, 
And know its sense will long outwear 
The glow of pleasure and the falling tear. 

Since then, of earth I've had my ample fill ; — 
Much of its good and something of its ill ; 
All that to men its varying fortunes bring — 
Friendship's warm breath and wrong's envenomed sting- 
Yet still the memory- of that kiss remains. 
Tempering all joys and solacing all pains. 
And when life's checkered pilgrimage is o'er. 
Should on my vision dawn that brighter shore. 
All sorrows past — all pains endured — 
Earth's woes behind and bliss assured, 
All doubt removed — all sin forgiven — 
I'll whisper at the gate of heaven, 
"My patent of admission here 
Was purchased with a mother's prayer !" 



Heonartr i^eatl). 

The following song, which was immeHsely popular for many years after its pub- 
lication, was composed and set to music by Leonard Heath of Nashua, about 184-2. 
He was a flue singer apd his concerts in which this song was feelingly rendered 
gave him a great reputation. It is thought by many to be the most touching and 
eloquent verse that any New Hampshire author has produced. Mr. Heath's death 
occurred a few years ago. 



THE GRAVE OF BONAPARTE. 

On a lone barren isle, where the wild roaring billows 

Assail the stern rock, and the loud tempests rave. 
The hero lies still, while the dew-drooping willows. 

Like fond weeping mourners, lean over his grave. 
The lightnings may flash and the loud thunders rattle ; 

He heeds not, be hears not, he's free from all pain ; 
He sleeps his last sleep — he has fought his last battle ! 

No sound can awake him to glory again ! 

O shade of the mighty, where now are the legions 

That rushed but to conquer when thou led'st them on ? 
Alas they have perished in far hilly regions. 

And all save the fame of their triumph is gone ! 
The trumpet may sound, and the loud cannon rattle ! 

They heed not, they hear not, they're free from all pain ; 
They sleep their last sleep, they have fought their last battle ! 

No sound can awake them to glory again ! 



MARY LITTLE ROGERS. 761 

Yet, spirit immortal, the tomb cannot bind thee. 

For, like thine own eagle that soared to the sun, 
Thou springest from bondage, and leavest behind thee 

A name which before thee no mortal had won. 
Though nations may combat, and war's thunders rattle. 

No more on the steed wilt thou sweep o'er the plain ; 
Thou sleep'st th}' last sleep, thou hast fought thy last battle ! 

No sound can awake thee to glor}- again. 



iBarg Eittlc Ixogcrs. 

Mins Rogers, a daughter of Richarci V. and Susan Roger-s, was a poet of \Vai"ner. 
■She was born In Xewburyport, Mass., January, 1811, anci her death occuiTed in 
M'arner, August, 1865. Her poems are mostly on religious subjects and ni;iny were 
printed in the Clu-htian ]\'atcliman. She was always frail and her (i])p(irtiniities 
for education and social culture were limited; but she made the most of her life, 
enjoyed keenly all the aspects of nature, and had genuine pleasure in writing; and 
above all in intercourse with Christian friends, being herself much esteemed tor her 
many excellencies of character. 



MARK VII. 32-37. 

If once on earth, the pitying Saviour spake 
Onl}' "Ephphatha !" and mute lips were free, 

And sealed ears heard, at once, all nature wake 
To strange and half-bewildering melod}', 

How gloriously the final trump will roll 

Its welcome peal, when all the dead shall hear. 

And the deo/rise, forever more made whole, 
To praise that Saviour, with the lip and ear. 

O will the}' all? Does each adore Him now? 

Saviour ! speak first the heart's deep sins forgiven, 
And, first in gratitude, the mute will bow. 

To sing, indeed, "new songs" to Thee in heaven 1" 



'ALL THY WORKS SHALL PRAISE THEE, O LORD 

Psalm cxlv. 10. 

The}- tell me of the far Pacific Isles, 

A bright, perpetual verdure, with the round 

Of sunny seasons bearing. "Where the smile 

Of fruit and flower forever on the face 

Of fragrant earth reposeth. Where the trees 

Like lordly monarchs tower, and the broad leaves 



762 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

O'ershadow families. Where most that man, 

With temperance and humility content, 

Needeth for life's enjoyment, springeth up 

Spontaneous!}' profuse. Where, pictured forth 

In living pencillings, the landscape glows 

With gorgeous tropic splendor, that the sua 

Gildeth as for a temple, and the moon 

Investeth with the poetr}' of rich 

And eloquent beauty, for the watcher's soul ; 

Rough hill and cascade, and the bordering vale, 

With the tamed mountain waters, threading through 

Their whispering channels to the dashing sea, 

Canoe and cottage, full of indolent life, 

Lulled b}' magnificent birds, that never trust 

Their brilliant songs upon a frosty air, — 

These all are beautiful, and, best of all, 

The moral loveliness that holy truth 

Is shedding on those fair, luxuriant shores. 

The sky of Italy, the graceful vine. 

Hanging delicious garlands on the brow 

Of southern Europe's beauty — England, rich 

In cultured loveliness, the "Verdant Isle" 

So sweet and harmless to her partial sons — 

The wild attractions of the Highland lore — 

Evergreen forests of the hoary north — 

Old Asia, full of Oriental fame — 

Africa, "robbed and spoiled," yet eloquent still, — 

These may all have their song — but is its tone 

More sweetl}' musical than the voice of home ? 

Home hath uncounted melodies. They come 

With thrush and robin, and the garrulous wren, 

And the mellifluous sparrow, poising high 

On the old beacon pine that overlooks 

These ragged hemlocks, partners of its age, 

The last green relics of forgotten 3'ears. 

Deep in their leafy castles, 3'ear by year, 

The families of musicians have been reared 

That hold their natural concerts, when the breeze 

Sweeps o'er the waters, through the rustling halls. 

And freely bears the tremulous notes away. 

How quietly that cool river laves the broad 

And fruitful border on its farther shore ! 

And back, far back, the wood}' highlands rear 

Their perilous steeps against the blue of heaven. 

The deep monoton}' of distant fall. 

And nearer, gentle rapid, blent with sounds 



WILLIAM D. LOCKE. 763 

Of busy thrift, is life's kind lullaby. 

I look far downward to the eddying waves, 

Through curtains of 3'oung verdure, where the beech, 

Willow and silvery poplar, and the oak, 

And tasselled birch, the jewelry of spring. 

The maple and the wreatlied and stately elm 

And spicy cherry wave their shady folds 

Above the rippling diamonds of the stream. 

The dense and wavy green of summer flings 

Appropriate beauty, redolent with hope, 

The hope of harvest, o'er the fitful face 

Of these rough, breezy hills. And hardy flowers 

Commit their fragrant breath to these clear winds, • 

And laugh on morning's fresh and healthy brow. 



2MiUiam IB, Hocikc. 



Mr. Locke was born in ritzwilllani, October 5, 1807. With the exception of 
teaching in common schools, some fifteen winter terms, his occupation has been 
upon the farm in the busy worlc of supporiing and training to maturity seven 
children of his own, and giving a home for longer or sliorter periods (one twenty- 
one years) to eight or nine other children. He resides in New Ipswich. 

CENTENNIAL YEAR— 1875. 

All garner'd now the ample store. 

The generous yield of fruitful sheaves. 

And Autumn's sunny days are o'er. 
The farewell days of brilliant leaves ! 

The merry rills that toss'd with glee 

Their foaming ripples all the way, 
With frost congealed, no longer fx-ee 

Are silent all the wintry day ! 

December's hours decline to sta}'. 

And close the j-ear the months began, — 

Thus "Seventy-five" will glide away. 
While "Seventy-six" will lead the van. 

So past the weighty, fearful years. 

Grand j-ears that made our nation free, — 

A nation born in blood and tears 
Has earn'd a noble right to be. 

Now wave in strength its pennons fair, 
In peerless grandeur round the world, 

Proclaiming far that freemen dare 
Defend the right with flags unfurled ! 



764 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

A century new the land awaits — 

Far reaching fame the years may thrill, 

Blest visions fair glad hope creates, 
A programme bold, a work done well ! 

I seem to hear a loft}' tread, 

The on-rush of an earnest throng, 

That o'er our boundless "free soil" spread 
And waft the nation's hfe along ! 

Now, farewell to the closing years, 
That found an era so sublime ! 

All hail the dawn that bright appears. 
The morn-light of this future time ! 



EESPONSE 

To a poem by Mrs. L. H. Sigourney entitled, "Eiiral Industry." 

All hail to thy harp of musical power 
That sings to cheer on the toil-loving mower. 
The sinews of labor inspired by its strain, 
Shall swing the keen scythe nor ever complain ! 

Sing on — 'twill lighten the weight of his toil, 
A sunbeam of pleasure as he coaxes the soil, 
Erewhile the sharp sickle shall gather the grain. 
The fruit-laden sheaves from hill-side and plain ! 

"Work, farmers work !" 3'es cheerily sow ! 

And we'll stir the rough mould with the conquering plough, 

And the music of spades and hoes will we send. 

As an echo responsive to the call thou hast penned. 



Samuel M> ©eiUfleritt. 

This venerable poet was born in Portsmouth about tlie year 1806. He resides iii 
Strafford. 



TO 



Were I to twine a beauteous wreath 
Th}' tranquil brow to bind, 

I would not take from Flora's hand 
Her flowers of choicest kind. 

I would not seek for pearls, or gold. 
Or diamonds bright and rare ; 

I'd cull from virtue's garden rich, 
Adornments far more fair. 



LYDIA M. HALL. 765 



I'd make a crown of modest}-, 
And deck it o'er with truth ; 

"With cheerf'uhiess I'd have it shine, 
Like buoyant hopes of youth. 

Sincerity, and friendship true. 
And kindness should be there ; 

And, more than all, thy brow the gem 
Of piety should wear. 



GOD AND OUR NEIGHBOR. 

Although our duties are in number great, 

Of vast proportions and of wondrous weight ; 

Yet all, when rightl}' seen and understood. 

Tend toward ourselves, our neighbor and our God. 

Our neighbor, who? Our dut}' to him, what? 
In palace dwells he, or in humble cot? 
Where'er he dwells, 'tis he, we must confess, 
Whom we can aid : our duty is to bless. 



Mrs. Hall, a sister of S. M. De Mcritt, was born iu Portsmouth. She died 'ifarch 
l.i, 1880, at tlie age of 77 j'ears. A short time before her death she wrote the fol- 
lowing poem. 



LINES. 

I am almost over the shore of time. 
Almost to the edge of the river ; 
The boatman is waiting to take me o'er 
To the sweet and beautiful floweiy shore 
Where peace will reign forever. 

Lord, help me to meet m}* end in peace 

When thou shalt call me to come ; 
And may all vain hopes forever cease, 
My love and faith each day increase. 
While I am going home. 

The river is cold and the waves run high. 
Be with me, dear Lord, till I've cross'd 
Whore are sweet flowers and living green. 
That the eyes of mortals have never yet seen, 
And sorrow and [nun will be lost. 



766 POET^ OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

lElbira ^. Sitson.^ 

Miss Gibson was born in Henuiker, July 11, 1813. When about twenty years of 
age she was taken sick, and was a great sutTerer the remainder of her life. During 
her hours of rest from pain she wrote prose and poetry, and practised the violin 
under the instruction of her brother. She bore her aflliction with patience and 
Christian fortitude. She died in her native town, November 22, 1868. 



A DREAM. 

I dreamed that friendship was a heavenly flower. But still, it deigned now and 
then to scatter its seeds on the earth, cheering poor mortals with its rare fra- 
grance. 

'Twas a charming flower, in a lovel}' bower, 

Oh, how surpassing fair ! 
I looked again, for I feared that pain 

Would crush its petals rare. 

Another look in heaven's pure book, 

An angel seemed to read ; 
That flowers would trail, mid sunshine and gale, 

From friendship's purest seed. 

She strewed the seed, 'twas a lovel}- deed ; 

The choicest fell to 3011 ; 
Their blossoms are bright in woe's dark niglit ; 

I woke and found it true. 



lEatiott IBeans SuHiban. 

Mrs. Sullivan, a daughter of Timothy Dix, was born in Boscawen, April 17, 1802. 
She became the wife of John W. Sullivan, and their residence was in Brookline, 
Mass. She died in 1860. During her early married life she wrote for the press, 
particularly for Mrs. Hale's Magazine. Her genius for music led her to the publish- 
ing of two volumes of music: the "Juniata Ballads," and the "Bible Songs." 



THE FIELD OF MONTEREY. 

The sweet church bells are pealing out 

A chorus wild and free. 
And every thing's rejoicing 

For the glorious victory ; 
But bitter tears are gushing 

For the gallant and tlie ga}'. 
Who now in death are sleeping, 

On the field of Monterey. 

When spring was here with opening flowers, 

And I a proud Ma}' queen. 
And all the young and gav were met 

To dance upon the green ; 



MAR Y ANN S ULLIVAN. 76 7 

The noblest and the manliest 

Was b}- ni}' side that day, 
Who now in death is sleeping 

On the field of Monterey. 

The flowers of spring are faded now, 

The woods are sear and cold, 
And persimmon's cheek is flusliing 

And the papaw shines in gold. 
Bnt he in earliest manhood 

Has sadly passed away, 
And now in death is sleeping 

On the field of Monterey. 

The bngles swell their wildest notes 

And lond the cannons roar. 
And madly peal the sweet church bells 

For holy rest no more ; 
But loneh' hearts are bleeding 

Upon this glorious da}', 
For the loved in death are sleeping 

On the field of Monterey. 



THE BLUE JUNIATA. 

Wild roved an Indian girl, Bold is my warrior good. 

Bright Alfarata, The love of Alfarata, 

Where sweep the waters Proud waves his snowy plume 

Of the blue Juniata. Along the Juniata. 

.Swift as an antelope. Soft and low he speaks to me. 

Through the forest going, And then his war cry sounding, 

Loose were her jetty locks Rings his voice in thunder loud 

In wavy tresses flowing. From height to height resound- 
ing. 

(xay was the mountain song So sang the Indian girl, 

Of bright Alfarata, Bright Alfarata, 

Where sweep the waters Where sweep the waters 

Of the blue Juniata. Of the blue Juniata. 

Strong and true my arrows are Fleeting years have borne away 

In my painted quiver. The voice of Allarata, 

Swift goes m}' light canoe Still sweeps the river on, 

Adown the rapid river. Blue Juniata. 



<illar|) ^nn gulHbait. 

Mrs. Sullivan was a native of this state. Her poem In-rc produced is ropicd from 
llic New Hampshire Hook. The storm spoken of in the third stanza occurred in 
September, 181.'5. Further information in regard to tliis writer the compiler has 
been unable to gain. 



76S POETS OF NEW HAMP8HIBE. 

MY GRANDMOTHER'S ELM. 

If ever you visit my dear native town, 

Will 3'ou seek out the vale where the mill-stream comes down, 

Even the villagers' children will point you the road, 

And the very old house where my grandsire abode. 

But the pride of the vale which I wish you to see, 
Is mj' grandmother's elm, the old mammoth tree ; 
How widely its graceful and spherical crown 
Flings over the valley- a shadow of brown. 

When the fierce south-easter was raging by, 
Filling with clamor the gentle blue sky, , 

Then a lofty branch like a forest oak. 
From the noble old tree by its fury was broke. 

Oft m}' grandmother told us, as pondering we stood. 
How, three-score 3'ears since, from the neighboring wood 
She carried that elm in her little right hand, 
And her father planted it firm in the land. 

Her grave is grown smooth on the green hill-side, 
But the elm lives still in its towering pride. 
And the spring's gayest birds have a colony there, 
And they gladden with carols the mid-summer air. 

And gay as the wild-bird's melody 
Are tlie sports I have led beneath that tree ; 
The old elm tree — oh, would it were mine 
In the shade of that tree even now to recline. 



IBarg im. orulber. 

Mrs. Culver, formerly Miss Mary M. Patterson, was born in Ilenniker, May 26, 
1802. In her cliildliood and early youth she had lew advantages for education, the 
only school to wliicli she had access, being two miles distant, and the school a 
large crowded public one, where little attention was given to younger pupils. 
Having an intense love of study, she managed, by improving every opportunity of 
acquiring knowledge, to become qualified for teaching at the age of 18 years. She 
followed this occupation with very little intermission for 49 years, teaching in 
this state, Vermont, and New York. While teaching in New York, she was pre- 
sented by the authorities of the state, with a state license, giving her permission 
to teach in any part of the state without further question. She was one of three 
female teachers in the whole state who obtained the license. Soon after her mar- 
riage, Mr. Culver became a confirmed invalid. She resides in Vassar, Michigan. 



LINES, 

Written on returning from a visit to Riverside Cemetery. 

'Tis hallowed ground, this tangled screen, 
These groves of pine, so darkly green, 
The quiet water's glancing sheen. 



JOHN ADAMS DIX. 769 



The silent graves, where lying low 
Are friends still loved, though now unseen. 
Lost long ago. 

'Tis hallowed ground, where loved ones rest. 
Whose lips in life our own have pressed, 
"Whose worth and virtues doubly blest 
Endure for aye, through fleeting years, 
Unchangable in our own breast. 

Embalmed in tears. 

'Tis hallowed ground, for love can trace, 
Despite the gloomy resting place. 
The well remembered form and face, 
As fair as when in life they shone, 
We see no change, in death's embrace, — 

No change is known. 

'Tis hallowed ground, this sylvan scene, 
Where on that autumn day serene 
We roved amid the foliage green. 
And heard the Cass in music low 
Chime sweetly through the dark ravine. 
Far, far below. 

This lovely glen will still remain, 
Here falls"^the silent summer rain. 
The fields still wave with golden grain. 

The streams still flow 
When friends shall look for us in vain, 

We're Iving low. 



John A Dix was bom iu Bofoawcii, .Tulv, 1796 He was educated at Salisbury 
and Fseter academies. In isil his latlicr sent him to ^[ontreal where he slmiied 
the French lan-niage. Subseciuentlv he continued his studies under private tutors 
in Boston :Mass. lie servc<l in tlic American army durins the war of ISli. holding 
several commissions. On returning to private life he studied law and was admit- 
ted to the bar in Washington, D. C, and settled in Cooi)ersto\vn, N. ^ ., in the i)rae- 
tice of his profession. In ISU he was appointed adjutant-general of the stale and 
removed to Mbanv, N. Y., and in 1833 he was appointed secretary of state, lie 
visited Europe in 'isii. In IS-lo he was chosen I'. 8. senator. In lSi3 he was ap- 
Tiointed asMsfant treasurer in the citv of New York. In 1S«0 he was appointed 
Dostina'^ter of that citv. In isin he wa.^ api)ninied major general of U. .•^. volunteers, 
and after superinten.'ling the raising of eleven regiments m New "iork he was as- 
.eiirued to the c.imman<i of the department einl)ra(iiig the st.ates of Pennsylvania, 
Delaware and Marvland, and estabUshed his hea<l-<iuarters at Baltimore. He was 
■ ■ . . ..■.-. .1. surrender of Gen. Lee to Gen. 

he 




iice 
ar- 

^v... - - i^wits. 

His"n"insdath"irof" the fani<)ns Latin hymn, Dies Ira', was made at Fortress Mon- 
roe, Va., iu 18(a. He died in >ew York' city, April 21, 187i). 



770 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

DIES IR^. 

Day of vengeance, lo ! that morning 
On the earth in ashes dawning, 
David with the Sibyl warning. 

Ah ! what terror is impending, 
When the Judge is seen descending, 
And each secret veil is rending. 

To tlae throne, the trumpet sounding, 
Through the sepulclires resounding. 
Summons all, with voice astounding. 

Death and Nature mazed are quaking. 
When, the grave's deep slumber breaking, 
Man to judgment is awaking. 

Now the written book containing 
Record to all time pertaining 
Opens for the world's arraigning. 

See the Judge his seat attaining, 
Darkest mj'steries explaining, 
Nothing unavenged remaining. 

What shall I then say, unfriended, 
By what advocate attended. 
When the just are scarce defended ? 

King of majesty tremendous, 
By th}' saving grace defend us ; 
Fount of pity, safet}' send us ! 

Jesus, think of thy wayfaring, 

For vay sins the death-crown wearing ; 

Save me, in that day, despairing. 

Worn and wear}' thou hast sought me, 
By th}' cross and passion bought me ; 
Spare the hope thy labors brought me. 

Righteous Judge of retribution. 
Give, O give me absolution 
Ere that day of dissolution. 

As a guilty culprit groaning, 
Flushed my face, my errors owning, 
Spare, O God, thy suppliant moaning. 



NATHANIEL GEEENE. 



Thou to Maiy gav'st remission, 
Heard'st the dying thief's petition, 
Bad'st me hope iu m}- contrition. 

In my prayers no worth discerning, 

Yet on me thy favor turning, 

Save me from that endless burning ! 

Give me, when thy sheep confiding 
Thou art from tlie goats dividing. 
On thy right a place abiding. 

"When the wicked are rejected, 
And to bitter tlauics sul)jected, 
Call me forth with thine elected ! 

Low in supplication bending, 

Heart as though with ashes blending ; 

Care for me when all is ending. 

"When on that dread day of weeping 

Guilty man in ashes sleeping 

"Wakes to his adjudication. 

Save him, God ! from condemnation ! 

TSTatftanicl €ircene. 

Nathaniel Green was born in Boscawen, Ma.v "20, 1797. At the age of ten he wont 
to Hopkiuton and became a clerk in a store. In 1S09 he went to Concord and of- 
fered himself to Isaac Hill to learn the printing business in the office of the X. H. 
J'dtriot. In ltil'2 he left Mr. Hill's employ and became connected with the Coiu-ord 
Cozettc. In 1814 he went to Portsmouth, was tliere employed on the N. H. War 
Journal. The next year he went to Haverhill, JIass., and worked upon the Jfatrr- 
hill Gazette. In lSl"7, at the age of twenty, lie started tlie K^mx Patriot. In 1S21 
he went to Boston and started the Boston sttitc.-niuni. In is-2;i he was appointed 
postmaster of Boston and occupied that positinn till Gen. Harrison became Presi- 
dent, and was again appointed to the same oflice by President Tyler, and he lield 
it till 184!>. He was a self-made man and well aciiuainted with the French, Italian 
anil German languages. Mr. Greene had a fine jioetic fancy. His poems often ap- 
l)eared over the signature of "Boscawen." He visited Pails in 1852. While there 
lie received intelligence of the death of a beloved daughter, wlio died at I'anauia, 
while on lier way to San Francisco. 



TO MY DAUGHTER IN HEAVEX. 

I had on earth but only thee ; 
Th}' love was all the world to me ; 
And thou hast sought the sil'^nt shore 
Where I had thought to go before ! 

Awaj- from^ thee, in sad exile. 
My lips had long imlcarned to smile ; 
Bright wit might Hash, red wine might pour. 
But I, alas ! could smile no more. 



772 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIEE. 

Th_y death, in these my fading years, 
Hath sealed and seared tlie fount of tears ; 
]\Iy heart may bleed at ever}- pore. 
But I, alas ! can weep no more. 

Ah ! how thy loss my soul doth rend, 
]My onl}' daughter, sister, friend ! 
Of thee bereft, all joy is o'er, 
And I, on earth, can hope no more. 

But in those realms beyond the sun. 
In that bright heaven thy faith hath won, 
"Where thou and kindred spirits reign, 
There hapl}' shall we meet again. 



PETRARCH AND LAURA. 

Oh ! deem not Peti-arch all unblest. 

In that he Laura never knew ; 
That no fond word his ear caressed. 

In fair return for love so true ; 
That no response he ever heard 

To la^'s in which his love was told 
In sweeter strains than love's own bird 

In grove or forest ever trolled. 

Though Laura might disdain to hear 

The music from his heart-strings wrung. 
Those strains now reach the listening ear 

In every land and every tongue. 
Though made the subject of her scorn. 

From which in life he suffered long. 
There's man}" a maiden, then unborn, 

Who since hath loved him for his song. 

Not unrewarded nor unblest 

The sorrows he in song deplored ; 
His sonnets oft relieved the breast 

From which the strains divine were poured. 
They won for him undying fame, 

Which brightens with the lapse of time, 
And eternized fair Laura's name. 

Embalmed in choice Italian rhyme. 



ALEXAXDEB HILL EVERETT— MARY CLARK. 773 

ElexantJcr l^ill iHbcrett. 

A. H. Everett, an cklcr brotlior of Eihvanl Everett, was a native of Dorchester, 
Mass. After graduation at Harvard College, in 1800, he became a teacher in Phil- 
lips Academy at Exeter. He stinlied law in the ofllce of John Quincy Adams, in 
Boston, and'went with Jlr. Adams to Russia, where he remaindl twoycais. Mr. 
Everett was author of several volumes, mostlv on i)f)litic;il ccimomy. lie occupied 
many important positions both at home and aVn-oad. In 181S and ls4(! he iiuMii^hed 
two volumes of "Critical and Miscellaneous Essays with Poems." He die<l at 
Canton, China, June 28, IS-IT. 



THE YOUNG AMERICAN. 

Scion of a mighty stock ! Thither turn the steady eye 

Hands of iron, hearts of oak, Flashing with a purpose high ! 

Follow with unflinching tread Thither with devotion meet, 

"Where the noble fathers led ! Often turn the pilgrim feet ! 

Craft and subtle treachery, Let the noble motto be. 
Gallant youth ! are not for thee : God, — the Country, — Liberty! 
Follow thou in word and deeds Planted on Religion's rock. 
Where the God within thee leads !Thou shalt stand in every shock. 

Honesty with stead}' eye, Laugh at danger far and near ! 

Truth and pure simplicity, Spurn at baseness, spurn at fear ! 

Love that gently winneth hearts, Still, with persevering might. 
These shall be th}- only arts. Speak the truth and do the right ! 

Prudent in the council train. So shall peace, a charming guest, 
Dauntless on the battle plain, Dove-like in thy bosom rest. 
Read}- at the country's need So shall honor's steady blnze 
For her glorious cause to bleed. Beam upon thy closing days. 

Where the dews of night distil Happy if celestial favor 
Upon Vernon's holy hUl ; Smile upon the high endeavor ; 

Where above it gleaming far ILappy if it be thy call 
Freedom lights her guiding star :In the holy cause to fall. 



iBar|) (JTlark. 



Mary Clark was a daughter of Daniel Clark of Concord. She died in 1?41 at the 
age of" 49 years. She was a ladv of unconunon gifts and acquirements, of a social 
disposition, simple in her manners, kind to the poor, ever sympathizing with the 
afflicted and sutlering of all classes. When Gen. l.afayette visited Concor<l in WU, 
on passing the house of Daniel Clai-k, Miss Clark stepped out of the door and pre- 
sented toTiim a bouquet of flowers, with the following lines, for which he thanked 
her. 



TO LAFAYETTE. 

Welcome, welcome, Lafayette, 
Thee we never can forget. 
Our country's and Washington's friend, 



774 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

May the spirits above, 
In the regions of love 
Thus greet thee, when Hfe's journey shall end. 



Frederick Knight was born in Hampton, October 9, 1701. His brother, Henry 
Cogswell Knight, was more (listinguislu'il than he as a poet but was never a resiiten't 
of this state. Frederick shared with him the influences of the refined rural home 
in Rowlcj', Mass., and acquired a taste for the poetical beauties of nature, whicli 
l)ecarae the solace of liis disappointed career. He studied tor a while at Har- 
vard College, but did not concentrate his attention sulliciently to pursue anv settled 
plan of life. He was afterwards a stuilent at the law school in Litchlield, Conn. 
Subseciuently he taught school for a while. His tastes and habits of retirement, 
however, constantly brought him back to the country-seat at Rowley. He was at 
one time employed' by an uncle, a merchant at the Canary Islands, but a passion 
for the beauties of the spot prevailed over the demands of business ami lie failed 
in the objects of his journey. And amiin he returned to his beloved Rowley. There, 
in a frugal mode of living, "he passed the remainder of his days. He died at Row- 
ly, November 20, 1849. 



FAITH. 

Have faith, and thou shalt know its use ; 

Have faith, and thou wilt feel 
'Tis this that fills tlie widow's cruse, 

And multiplies her meal. 

Have faith, and, breaking from thy bound. 

With eagles thou shalt rise. 
And find thy cottage on the ground 

A castle in the skies. 

Have faith, and thou shalt hear the ti'cad 

Of horses in the air. 
And see the chariot overhead 

That's waiting for thee there. 

Have faith, the earth will bloom beneath. 

The sea divide before thee. 
The air with odors round thee breathe, 

And heaven wide open o'er thee. 

Have faith, that purifies the heart. 

And with thy flag unfurled, 
Go forth without a spear or dart ; 

Tliou'lt overcome the world. 

Have faith, be ever on thy way, 
Arise and trim thy light, 



FBEDEEICK KNIGHT. 



And shine, if not tlie orb of day, 
Yet as a star of niglit. 

Have faith, tliough threading lone and far 
Througli Pontine's deepest swamp, 

AVlien niglit has neither moon nor star 
Thou' It need no statf nor lamp. 

Have faith, go roam with savage men, 
And sleep with beasts of prey ; 

Go sit with lions in their den, 
And with the leopards play. 

Have faith, on ocean's heaving breast 

Securely' thou may'st tread, 
And make the billowy mountain's crest 

Thy cradle and thy bed. 

Have faith, around let thunders roar. 

Let earth beneath thee rend. 
The lightnings play, the deluge pour. 

Thy pass- word is — a friend. 

Have faith, in famine's sorest need. 

When naked lie the fields, 
Go forth and weeping sow the seed, 

Then reap the sheaves it yields. 

Have fjiitli, in earth's most troubled scene, 

In time's most trying hour 
Thy breast and«brow shall be serene. 

So soothing is its power. 

Have faith, and say to yonder tree, 
And mountain where it stands, 

Be ye both buried in the sea — 
They sink beneath its sands ! 

Have faith, upon the battle-field. 

When facing foe to foe, 
The shaft, rebounding from thy shield, 

Sliall lay the archer low. 

Have faith, the finest thing that flies 

On wings of golden ore. 
That shines and melts along the skies, 

Was but a worm before. 



776 POETS OF NEW HAJIPSHIBE. 



l^ijctc mnigijt ifEootrg. 



Mrs. Mooily came to Boscawen with her husband, Caleb Knight, in 1792, from 
Newbury, Mass. Their home was in a sechnled locality west of Little Hill in 
r)OSC<awen. She was a school teacher, at that time an uncommon thing for a female. 
Three of her poems are printed in Coffin's History of Boscawen and Webster. 



MY COTTAGE. 

In this retreat, remote and still, 

My favorite solitude I find r 
This little cot beneath the hill 

Has charms congenial to my mind. 

How gracious, heaven, art thou to me. 
In answering thus my early prayers ; 

From youth I ever wished to be 

Far from the world and all its cares. 

Far from the world of noise and strife, 
With quiet here I'll pass my days ; 

In this sequestered vale of life 

I've found that peace that ne'er decaj's. 

And from this humble shade ere long, 
To heaven, my home, I hope to rise. 

Borne on the balmy wings of love 
To fairer mansions in the skies. 



EXTRACT FROM AN EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND. 

Your friend has requested a letter for you, 

But at present I know not what theme to pursue, 

Unless of my dwelling I give 3'ou a view. 

I'm of the earth, earthly ; and therefore my mind 

To things of small moment is mosth' inclined. 

My time and my thoughts are employed in my dairy, 

Tliough sometimes I scribble when of that I'm wear}'. 

My writing, you'll notice, is none of the best. 

Though perhaps not so coarse as my genius and taste. 

But enough of this preface : I now will proceed 

To draw you a landscape if you it can read. 

In this lonely vale, half a mile from the road, 

Shut out from the world, is my rural abode. 

A mile to the west you may houses discern ; 

But here quite alone stand my cottage and barn, 

And around it are sporting the flocks and the herds, 



COBNELIUS 8TURTEVANT. 777 



The turkey's and chickens, the squirrels and birds. 

And here is m}- garden, but we'll pass and not heed it ; 

Like ni}' heart, 'tis uncultured — I've neglected to weed it. 

But the fields and the orchards, that ask not my care, 

Are teeming with good fruit, and look very fair. 

See yonder the ridge and the wood-covered hill, 

And down in the hollow there ripples a rill ; 

In pleasing meanders it pla^-s through the wood. 

Till it meets and unites in a neighboring flood. 

The wide-spreading meadow, the sweet-flowing fountain, 

The tall, dusky forest, the high wooded mountain, 

The steep, craggy rock, and the grove and the brook, — 

The prospect is pleasant wherever you look. 

On all sides are blooming the beauties of spring ; 

Clad with corn and with clover, the vales shout and ring: ; 

The sweet-scented briers that deck this green bed. 

The soft fragrant zephyrs that play round ni}' head, 

The sweet little songsters that carol above, — 

All, all I have named are the offspring of love ! 



(JTorncUug Sturtcbant. 



Mr. Sturtevant was an old time printer and publisher of Keenc. Mr. George H. 
Sturtevant of Boston, but formerly of Concord, is his grandson. Mr. Sturtevant 
was a versatile writer. The sonnet here produced was published in the Cambridge 
Gazette in the summer of ISO-i. 



SONNET. 

On the Death of General Alexander Ilaniiltou. 

On worth entomb'd, and honor's hallow'd bier, 
Let those wlio prize them drop the sacred tear. 
Columbians, mourn your peerless Chieftain dead, 
And let immortal laurels deck his bed. 
Untimelj- death, h\ fate's mysterious hand, 
Hath cut off virtue from our weeping land ; 
Despoil'd its fairest flower ; perfection mourns — 
Her noblest model to the dust returns. 
The scholar's pattern and the soldier's guide ; 
The sage civilian and the statesman's pride ; — 
Friend to the worthy, to the base a rod ; 
"An honest man — the noblest work of God." 
Columbia's genius mourns her fav'rite son. 
The friend of man, the matchless Hamilton. 



778 POETS OF NEW HAMP8HIBE. 

Samuel ^^1)lltriclv 13aile8. 

Dea. Samuel P. Bailey was born in South Weare, February 27, 1780. He came to 
Washing-ton in 1802; constructed buildings, and commenced house-keeping, having 
))eeu married the same year. In 1818 he liecarae a worthy member of the Masonic 
Order, an(l was made Secretary of "Mount Vernon Lodge, No. 1.5," in which capa- 
city he served for 28 consecutive years. On the 11th of July, 1879, the members of 
M. V. Lodge came to his house, which he built and in which he had lived 77 years, 
and held a lodge meeting with him, he acting as Chaplain pro tempore, and closing 
the records as Secretary pro tempore. On the 27th of February, 1880, under the 
auspices of the Free Masons, his 100th birthday was very successfully celebrated 
at the tWn hall in AVashington, Mr. Bailey being present and able to participate 
in the ceremonies. During the thirteen last years of his life he composed and 
wrote about 2000 poetical Acrostics on different persons' names which are scattered 
into more than one-half of the states in the Union. He died on the 12th day of 
July, 1880, being 100 years, 4 months and 1.5 days old. His last words were a cor- 
rect and audible repetition of the Lord's Prayer, expiring immediately after with- 
out a struggle. 



MY PILGRIMAGE. 

When I get thvoiigh my pilgrimage, 

And leave all things below, 
I hope to find ni}- friends again 

Who did before me go ; 

And join with them, all clothed in white, 
To shout and sing God's praise ; 

And there remain in mansions bright^ 
In never ending days. 

Now I am old and feeble too, 

But God still helps me live 
To read and write, and some good do 

By counsel I should give. 

Now I have seen one hundred years, 
Four months and three da3's more, 

And soon shall leave all doubts and fears, 
And Jesus Christ adore. 



The following poem, by Daniel Webster, has been forwarded to the compiler by 
Hon. Henry P. Kolfe, of "Concord. Soon after Mr. AVebster delivered his most elo- 
quent and jiathetic oration upon the lives and services of .John Adams and Thomas 
Jefferson, a lady brought him her album, and requested him to write his name di- 
rectly beneath Sir. Adams' name. On the same page, beneath the trembling sig- 
natui-e of the venerable Ex-President, Mr. VA^ebster wrote these lines. [See page 2G.] 



ANONYMOUS. 779 



LINES WRITTEN IN A LADY'S ALBUM. 

Dear lad}-, I a little fear 

'Tis dangerous to be writing here. 

His band, wbo bade our eagle fly, 

Trust his 3'oung wings and mount the sky, 

VPao bade across the Atlantic tide, 

New thunders sweep, new navies ride. 

Has traced in lines of trembling age 

His autograph upon this page. 

Higher than that eagle soars, 

"Wider tlu^u that thunder roars. 

His fame sliall through the world be sounding. 

And o'er the waves of time be bounding. 

If thousands, as obscure as I, 

Cling to his skirts, he still will fly 

And leap to inuuortality ; 

If b}- his name I write my own, 

He'll take me where I am not known ; 

His cold salute will meet my ear : 

"Pray, stranger, how did you come here?" 



Enongmouis. 



The followincf i)oem was composed by one of three Indians who were educateil 
nianj- years ago at Dartmouth CoUeg-e.and was sung by tliem at their departure 
while standing around a "youtht'nl pine" tlieu growing nortlieasterly of Dartmouth 
Ilali. They had built near this pine a wigwam whicli they named their '"IJciwer." 
In Bryant's "Library of I'oetry and Song" there is a poem said to be "anonymous" 
whicli was undfiuliledly garbled from this olii Imlian song. In that later poem 
every thing which gives signiiicance to the original is left out. 



WHEN SHALL WE THREE MEET AGAIN. 

When shall we three meet again? 
\\'hcn shall we three meet again? 
Oft shall glowing hopes expire. 
Oft shall wearied love retire. 
Oft shall death and sorrow reign 
Ere Ave three shall meet again. 

Though in distant lauds we sigh. 
Parched beneath a burning sk}'. 
Though the deep between us rolls, 
Friendship shall unite our souls, 
And in fancy's wide domain 
Oft shall we three meet aijain. 



780 POETS OF NEW HAMPSHIBE. 

When these burnished locks are grey, 
Thinn'd by many a toil-spent day, • 
When around this youthful pine 
Moss shall creep and ivy twine, 
Long may this loved bower remain, 
Here may we three meet again. 

When the dreams of life are fled. 
When its wasted lamps are dead, 
AVhen in cold oblivion's shade 
Beauty, wealth and fame are laid, 
Where immortal spirits reign. 
There may we three meet again. 



I^'DEX. 



PAGE 

Adams, Ezra Eastman 176 

Adams. Enoch George 330 

Adams, Ida G 707 

Adams, James Meade 735 

Adams, James Osgood 235 

Adams, John Greeuleaf 144 

Adams, John Wesley 456 

Adams, Letitia M. . .* 680 

.Adams, Luc}- P 235 

Adee, David Graham 557 

Aldrich, Thomas Bailey 538 

Andrews, Anabel C 666 

Anonymous 779 

Bachelder, Eugene 260 

Bailey, Albon H 313 

Bailey, Sanmel Philbrick • . . 778 

Baker, Horace B 665 

Baldwin, Samuel C 225 

Baldwin, Thomas 10 

Ballon, Hosea 21 

Barker, James W 305 

Barnes, Esther "VValdeu 147 

Barnes, Susan Rebecca Ayer. 113 

Bartlett, AVilliam A 716 

Barton, Hubbard Alouzo 745 

Bean, Helen Mar 603 

Beck, Michael A\'entworth . . . 106 

Belknap, George Eugene 427 

Belknap, Jeremy 2 

Bellows, John Adams ....... 659 

Bennett, Adelaide G 058 

Blair, Mary E 280 

Blanchard, Amos 100 

Blood, Henry Ames 559 

BoUes, Clara E 673 

Boodey, Mary Helen 647 

--Boyle, Sarah IJoberts 356 

Boylston, Edward D 170 

Breman, James 119 

Brett, Mary E. Ferguson 368 

Brewster, Charles Warren . . . 105 



PAGE 

Bristol, Augusta Cooper 490 

Browne, Addison Francis 654 

Browne, George Waldo 696 

Browne, Lew is C 133 

Bryant, George Nelson 291 

Bryant, James Churchill 164 

Bulfluch, Stephen Greenleaf . 125 

Burke, Edmund 124 

Burnham, Samuel 446 

Burroughs, Charles 34 

Camp, Lydia Frances 643 

Carlton, Frank Henry 668 

Carr, Laura Garland' 407 

Carrigau, Philip 22 

Carter, Nathan Franklin 397 

Carter, Nathaniel Hazeltine.. 31 

Case, Luella J. B 212 

Caverly, Eobert Boodey 109 

Champney, George Mather . . 161 

Chapin, Bela 377 

Chellis, Lora Ella 678 

Clarke, James Freeman 139 

Clark, Leander 197 

Clark, Mary 773 

Coan, Leander S 567 

Cochrane. Clark B 626 

Cochrane, Helen A. F 596 

Cochrane. Warren Robert . .. 536 

Coit, Charles Wheeler 728 

Colcord, Edward John 667 

Colgate, Susan F 395 

Converse, Sarah S 370 

Couch, Ira Harris 751 

Crosby, Thomas Russell 218 

Cross, Lucy Rogers Hill 481 

Crowell, Baron Samuel 036 

Culver, Mary >! 768 

Currier, Moody 115 

Curtis, Nancj' D 757 

Cutts, Mary 101 



782 



INDEX. 



Dana, Charles Anderson 241 

Dana, Francis 744 

Daniels, Eunice Kimball 120 

De Merritt, Samuel M 764 

De "Wolfe, Annie E 7;^7 

l)e Wolfe, Geo. Gordon Byron 489 

Dinsmoor, Eobert 10 

Dix, John Adams 769 

Dodge, George Dudley 541 

Dodge, Jacob Ricliards 268 

Douelery, Harriet Newell 207 

Dorr, George S 688 

Drown, Daniel Augustus 263 

Eaton, Harriet Newell 334 

Eddy, Mary Morse Glover... 75.5 

Ellsworth, Mary AV 424 

Everett, Alexander Hill 773 

Everett, David 16 

Everett, Frank O 633 

Farmer, John 44 

Fernald, Woodbury Melcher. 172 
Fessenden, Thomas Green... 17 

Fields, James Thomas 226 

Fish, Eliflia Snell 45 

Fletcher, Josiah Moody 342 

Foster, Fannie E '. 284 

Foster, Sarah H 473 

Foss, Deborah G 248 

Foss, Sanuiel Walter 722 

Fox, Charles James 159 

Fox, William Copp 337 

Francis, Mary Gibson 754 

French, Benjamin Brown 93 

French, Etta Udora 731 

French, Fiancis Ormond 553 

French, Harriette Van Mater 236 
Fuller, Homer Taylor 572 

Gerould, Cynthia L 107 

Gibson, Elvira A 766 

Goodale, Celestia S 365 

Gorrill, Miranda M 592 

Greeley, Horace 150 

Greene, Isabel C 669 

Greene, Nathaniel 771 

Griffith, George Bancroft 609 

Hale, Horatio 221 

Hale, Sarah Josepha 60 

Hale, William 707 

Hall, Lydia M 765 

Hammond, Geo. Washington 103 



PAGE 

Harvey, Mattliew 184 

Hatch, Mary K. P: 606 

Haven, Nathaniel Api)leton.. 49 

Haven, Samuel 1 

Haywai;d, Emily Graham. . . . 574 

Hay ward, Silvanus 362 

Hazeltlne, Hannah Bryant. . . 302 
Hazeltine. Miron James ... . 299 

Heath, Clara B 580 

Heath, Leonard 760 

Heath, Simeon P 250 

llerrick, Henry W 289 

Hey wood, Martha J 451 

Hibbard, Harry 214 

Hildreth, Samuel Teuney 231 

Hill, David H 459 

Hinsdale, Grace AVebster 430 

Hobl)s, Mary Elizabeth 615 

Holbrook, Annie B 600 

Hood, Joseph Edward 320 

Hosmer, Edward A 307 

Hosiner, Mary B 203 

Hunt, Bessie Bisbee 675 ' 



Jenks, Edward Augustus 412 

Jenness, Caroline Piiizabeth . . 294 
Jones, Mattie Frances 535 

Keeler, Samuel Crof ut 352 

Kennard, James 192 

Kenerson, Rhoda H. E 389 

Kent, George 67 

Kent, George Frederick 284 

Kent, Henry Oakes 470 

Kimball, Harriet 3IcEwen... 475 

Kimball, Kate J 705 

Knight, Frederick 774 

Laighton, Albert 372 

Laighton, Benjamin D 223 

Laighton, Oscar 524 

Lane, Mary Blake 468 

Lane, Sarah Elizabeth 701 

Leahy, Thomas Francis 637 

Little, Alfred 752 

Livermore, Sarah White 43 

Locke, AVilliam D 763 

Lord, Charles Chase 619 

Lund, Mary Dwinell Chellis. 366 

Mackintire, Clara Fellows . . . 644 

Marsh, William B 175 

Martin, Ehzabetli 634 



INDEX. 



783 



FAr;K 

Mason, Ellen Mt'lJoberts C70 

McClintock, Catherine :\I 74S 

McCrillis, Abbie Huutoon... '^'u 

McFarland, Andrew r)87 

Mejsser, Mehin .1 (!8() 

Miller, Marv E. R 4-2:) 

Milliken, Daniel L r)44 

Moody, Phebe Knight 770 

Mooi'e, Frederic A 151!) 

Moore, Hugh 121 

Moses, John Nelson KiU 

Moses, Thomas P 120 

Moss, Sylvia A > . GGl 

Nason, Elias 155 

Norris, Laura A 422 

Nowell, Edward P 549 

Obear, Lydia A. Swazey 75G 

Ordronaux, John 391 

Orne, Caroline 142 

Osgood, Carrie White 718 

Osgood, George "W 457 i 

Palmer, Charlotte M 537 , 

Parker. Amos Andrew 51 

Parker, Caroline E. K 354 

Parker, Sarah ^l 532 

Parnielee, Anne 723 

Parmelee, Joseph Warren 232 

Partridge. Alibie Nelsia 714 

Partridge, Samuel Hudson. •• 750 

Patterson, George Willis 730 

Patterson, James Willis 753 

Patterson. Mary Stearns 153 

~~l*ayson, Aurin M 351 

Peabody, Ejihraim 117 ^ 

I'eal)odv, Oliver AV. liourne. • 85 j 
PeabodV, William B. Oliver . 88 

Perley,"Mav E 743 I 

Perrv, Albert 245 

Perrv, Timothy 390 

Phelps. Adali/.a Cutler 2G7 , 

Pickering. Grace E G82 | 

I'ike, Saiuuel J 32G 

jnilsbury, Fred Cutter 712 j 

Pipei-, Martha Alma 74(5 [ 

Plumer, William 3G 

Plumer, William 271 I 

Porter, Sarah 14 [ 

]*ratt. Mary Paymond 154 

I'roctor, Edna Dean 400 

Quackeubos, George Payn. .. 321 



I'AGE 

Rand, Edward A 550 

Kand, Edward Dean 252 

IJankin, Jeremiah Earns 358 

Kichanlson, Charles Francis. G92 
Pichardson. AVilliamMerchant 24 
Kobinsou. Annie Douglas. . . • G22 

Robinson, ilary M 484 

Rogers, Mary Eittle 7G1 

Runnels, Fannie Huntington. 738 

Russell, Amos B 309 

Russell, James G G35 

Russell, Thomas P 304 



Sargeant, Edward Erasnms . . 242 

Sargent, Alfred William 0G3 

Sargent, Charles Edward 708 

Senter, Mary A. A 486 

Sewall, Jonathan Mitchel ... 7 

Seymour, Rhoda Bartlett G02 

Shedd, Sarah 210 

Shillaber, Benj. Penhallow.. IGG 

Sholes, Althine Florence 700 

Shores, Eliza O 72 

Silver, Edna Hastings 78 

Simes, Louisa 148 

Smart, Amanda Jemima 419 

Smith, Asa Dodge 108 

Smith, Jose])li Brown 261 

Smith, Lotta Blanclie 727 

Smith, Mattie E 488 

Smith, Sarah 81 

Spalding, Caroline Anastasia 436 

Spatilding, M;u-y Wilkins 123 

Spencer, Hiram Ladd 382 

Stark, Caleb 92 

Stark, William 311 

Stickney, Asenath C 317 

Sturoe, AVilliam Cant 254 

Sturtevant, Cornelivxs 777 

Sullivan, Mary Ann 767 

Sullivan, Marion IMeans 766 

Swain, Leonard 246 

Talbot, Henrv Laurens 640 

Thaxter, Celia 518 

Tappan, Daniel Dana 75 

Ta])i)an, William Bingham... 64 

Thaver, Stephen 11 585 

Thornton, Eli/.a B 72 

Tilton, Lvdia H 576 

Trevitt, Lulu E 741 

Tullock, Lida C 703 



784 



INDEX. 



PAGE 

Upham, Charles W 183 

Upham, Nathaniel Gookiu ... 99 
Upham, Thomas Cogswell... 81 

Varney, John Riley 239 

Wakefield, Nancy Priest 542 

Walker, Horace Eaton 699 

Walker, .Tames P 747 

Walker, Justin E 315 

Wallace, Andrew 29 

Ward, Milton 126 

Warland, John H 128 

Wason, Sarali Theresa 755 

Webster, Daniel 26 and 778 

Weeks, Lavinia Patterson 546 

Wells, Anna Maria 74 

Wlieeler, Mary PI 510 



PAGE 

^AHieler, Charles L 750 

Whipple, Julia Van Ness . . • 530 

Whitcher, Mary 192 

Whitney, Adeline D. T 296 

Whiton, Caroline E 747 

Wiggin, Edith E 684 

Wiggin, Lucv Bentlev 683 

Wiggin, S. Adams. . .' 749 

Wilcox, Carlos 53 

Woolsou, Abba Goold 569 

Woolson, Constance Fenimore 421 
Wood, Emma Chadbourne. . . 726 

Wood, John Bodwell 331 

Wood, John Quincy Adams. . 272 

Wood, Julia A. A 278 

Wooddell, Edward Whiteside 318 
Woodward, Arvilla Almira . . 609 
Worthen, Augusta Harvev • • • 188 
AVright, Nehemiah ' 288 



ERRATA. 



In a part of tbis edition the following errors occur : 

Page 11, line 16 from bottom, for "you" read "yon." 

Page 80, line 12, for "vigil's" read "vigils." 

Page 113, read "Susan R. A. Barnes." 

Page 128, line 13 from bottom, for "thousands," read "thousand." 

Page 136, line 14, for "steam" read "stream." 

Page 154, restore title, "Do they love there still," to Mrs. Pratf s poem. 

Page 17G, in line 2 of sketch, for "under" read "and under," and strikeout "and" 
in line 3, and in line 5, for "was" read "became." 

Page 177, the title of the poem, "I move into the light," should be quoted, and 
this line should be inserted beneath : "Written on the death of Rev. Dr. Wallace of 
Philadelphia." 

Page 227, the space below line 19, from the bottom, should be above the line. 

Page 236, read "Harriette Van Mater French," and line 2 from bottom for "hour" 
read "bower." 

Page 238, line 17 from bottom, for "I say not so," read "O say not so," and line 4 
from bottom, for "forests," read "forests." 

Page 272, line 10 from bottom, for "words words," read "words were." 

Page 318, read "Edward Whiteside Wooddell." 

Page 421, line 2, for "twelve," read "three." 

Page 464, line 18, for "groves," read "graves." 

Page 544, line 2 of sketch for "Hearth and Home," read "Cottage Hearth." 



